


Like Ghosts From Sage

by TheSaintRyan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Second Person, POV shifts, Possession, Sheriff Stilinski Knows, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-07 22:10:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15917262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaintRyan/pseuds/TheSaintRyan
Summary: The nemeton.  The horrid hum of a million flies.  The smell of sweets layered over the stench of rotten meat.  Stiles, with his face obscured  behind bandages.  A feeling of deja vu.  A feeling that you've done all this before.  The endless white room.  Stiles, dragging a straight razor through the bandages covering his mouth and gallons of thick black ooze pouring out.  The horrid hum of a million flies.  The smell of ozone.  The smell of fires; wood smoke and meat smoke.  Drowning in a frigid sea.  Standing in a river.  Running, running, running.  You are the river.  You always run.





	1. 0. YOUR GRAVE HAS YET TO BE DUG

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this while camping and it has spiraled out of control. I blame the forest.

You grimace heavily, though it's mostly for show. You've become familiar, by now, with the monstrously acrid odor of absolute terror, so at the moment it's nothing but a cloying afterthought. The wound in your shoulder has a burning persistence to it which under other circumstances you would have paid no attention to but which currently is taking up the majority of your actionable thoughts. The man standing, legs loose and arms akimbo, across the room is someone who you know intimately. Someone who once, even, you loved. Now, though, he is the river Styx. You level a glare at him, and the rage in his eyes gives way to honest-to-God fear which fills you with more satisfaction than you know to be healthy.

"Please," he says; a weighted silence; a pregnant pause; a tense moment, "Stiles. I know you're in there."

You grin. Stiles does not.

___

0\. YOUR GRAVE HAS YET TO BE DUG

You wake up on the floor. It's not a bad carpet or anything, but still. You can't help but grin, thinking back on your night. You and Scott, the bottle of whiskey, the lake in the preserve. It isn't at all unfamiliar, this mischief and madness. The slow drawl of summer. As odd as it sounds, and as close as the two of you had been, it was only all of the complete and utter bullshit and mortal danger that truly bonded you. Death drew you closer when your mother died, and then again when the cold grip of it tightened around you - only sophomores and facing so much - in the form of the alpha pack. Now, though, seniors and all that, you and Scott are so well and truly one that it goes beyond question.

You will turn eighteen in two months. Now it's August. The sun is heavy in the sky. Even from your place, here on the floor next to Scott's bed where you'd passed out, you can tell. Without opening your eyes you feel the heavy, muggy air in the room and the warmth of the sun and the yellow tint it gives the eigengrau behind your eyes. You roll over; to seek the dark, to relieve your aching left shoulder, to fall back asleep or to wake up; it is still too early for these questions.

Scott stirs, briefly, from his bed. He finds rest again, though, and begins snoring lightly. It doesn't kill your smile, nor does the aching shoulder, and instead you envy him. You try to go back to sleep but fail, so instead you try to remember your dream.

_The woods. The smoke. The heat the heat the shocking heat. Calling for rain like alms from the heavens. Beautiful wood; white paint stained grey with smoke; a dining room table ablaze._

You startle awake again some time later. Scott is still asleep, but you know you must give up the ghost, so you make a show of sitting up and stretching. It proves ineffective, so instead you just get up and walk downstairs to make coffee. You reach the kitchen and startle Melissa, sitting at the table and working on a crossword while sipping from a mug. You can smell it, thankful that there's some left in the pot, and you shoot her a shy smile. She levels you, but fondly, and shifts a pointed glance over to the clock on the stove. You startle: It reads 4:03am but it was just early morning and you'd gone back to sleep and woken up later in the afternoon, right?

Melissa says, "trouble sleeping?" And you nod, crossing the kitchen to the pot and pouring a mug of coffee. You join her at the table and say, "I could have sworn I just slept all day, but here I am." She gives you a smile, but then her alarm on her phone startles you both. She gets up and heads to the living room. You busy yourself with filling out the rest of the crossword while she's gone. You've just finished, the puzzle as well as your coffee, when she returns to the kitchen. She's in a hurry, obviously on her way to the hospital, but she pauses long enough to pull you in to a tight hug. You return it, surprised, and she tells you to get some more sleep. After you hear the click of the door, you realize that the coffee pot is empty, so you can't think of a reason not to try. You go back up to Scott's room, climb into the empty spaces of his bed, and fall asleep around the time he rolls over and wraps his arms tight around you.

*

When you wake up for real, the afternoon sun heavy in the sky (again), Scott has his nose pressed into the junction between your neck and shoulder, his lips parted, huffing breaths against your throat. His arms have looped around and under you to hold you fast to the bed. You smile, tilt your head slightly and nuzzle closer to him. He stirs, cracking open his eyes, and smiles at you in the morning light.

"Hey," you say. He turns onto his back and stretches; the blankets slipping down, the long ridges of his ribs, the long line of hair down his front, the jutting length of his morning wood tenting the blanket. "Hi," he says after a long moment, voice thick and raspy, "did you sleep okay?" You only shrug, and for a second he frowns, but his sleepy smile returns quickly, and he leans back to enjoy the morning.

You stretch too, your shoulder still aching from some phantom pain, your back popping angrily enough that Scott winces. "No more crashing on my floor, dude. You always end up here anyway," he says and you laugh. The sun is high, a Breeze whispers through his open window ruffling the curtain, but you can tell it's going to be hot today. You get up, stepping into your sweats and rifling through Scott's dresser to steal a clean t shirt. He's just getting up when you turn around, scratching his belly absently and yawning widely, wearing only his underwear. You leave him there, moving back downstairs to make coffee (again).

You stand in the kitchen, listening to the percolation behind you, and are overcome with a bizarre feeling. Like watching yourself move slower in the mirror, delayed somehow. "Mausoleum," you say, before you even notice you'd thought it at all. "What?" Scott asks from behind you and it startles you out of the feeling. You can't remember what you'd been thinking so you just shrug and cross to grab two mugs down from the cupboard. The next time you see Deaton you'll have to ask him about that. You pour the coffee absently, turning to hand Scott his, only to find him suddenly right behind you. He looks concerned as much as tired. "Are you alright, Stiles?" he asks and you nod.

"Just didn't sleep well," you say, before taking a sip of the coffee still hot enough to burn. He nods, satisfied, and heads into the living room to turn on the TV. You busy yourself in the kitchen a while, cleaning up after yourself, and then join him where he's turned on some cartoon to stare blearily at.

School will start soon but for now it's just the haze of summer stretching lazy and Endless before you. You're in no rush, so you spend most of the afternoon relaxing at Scott's until he has to get ready for work. You head home, resolving to shower, but on the way there you're suddenly struck by the same odd feeling as before. You hear yourself say, "memento mori," but it doesn't quite sound like you, and seconds later your jeep grinds to a halt as something crashes into the passenger side.

*

The breeze is ruffling through your hair; you're overdue for a haircut. The plastic under your back is damp, your foot trailing lazily through the cool water and the sun creating colour behind your eyes. You hear laughter, Lydia gasping as she comes up for air, splashing as Danny and Scott and Boyd jeer at each other. The raft you're on looks like a lobster, and if the itching burn under your skin is any indication you are approaching the same bright red color rapidly. From beside you Lydia says, "catching up on sleep?" You mumble a reply, fail to hide a smile before she tips the raft over and dumps you into the water.

*

Everything goes suddenly quiet, the world around you shocked into silence. You think you're screaming but it's impossible to be sure. Everything is spinning spinning spinning. All at once it comes to a sudden and sickening halt. Broken glass in the afternoon light. Another car hitting its brakes and screeching to a halt. _Hello there's been an accident._ A murder of crows let loose and silhouetted against the shocking blue of the sky. Then, suddenly, only Darkness.

*

You come up gasping in laughter, wrapping your arms around Lydia's middle and hefting her up and back into the pool. From the yard, a few feet away stretched lazily along a lawn chair, Jackson levels you with a look. All you can do is laugh, smiling and shrugging at him before Danny tackles you from the side. It's all joy. It's all an orchard. It's all a garden. Summer days in Danny's pool or the lake, summer nights at Lydia's parent's lake house or at your house, the sheriff looking bemused and fond at the crowd and noise in a house that once, years ago, was a tomb.

A mausoleum.

*

It's dark. It is nothing if not profoundly dark and a bit dank. You want to move but it feels like your arm, your Left arm, is pinned down across your solar plexus. Your legs have the weightless heavy feeling that follows far too much physical exertion, like you'd just hiked seven miles and then run laps the rest of the night. There's a moment of resigned calm, like of course this would happen to you. Then, though, the panic sets in.

*

The night is chilly, a bit, but there's a bonfire and a breeze curling off the ocean that smells like salt and resonates within you, the twitching spark of magic. Scott is sitting with Erica and Boyd and Isaac, all chatting animatedly about something. Derek falls to sit on the log next to you, his long leg pressed against yours. "Hey," you say, leaning close and speaking soft. He looks at you, one of his long and searching gazes, and then the corners of his mouth shift up so slowly you might have missed it had you not been gazing at him just as intently. He knocks his shoulder against yours and says, "hi." Across the years you've grown closer, but still nowhere near enough for you to pretend you understand him.

You feel brave, maybe it's the magic in the air, so you lean into him and grin as his arm drags up your back to rest across your shoulders. He's so warm; the solid weight of him, the rise and fall of his chest. He is the moon, and you've been drawn in.

*

Through a small window you can see the gentle light of the moon, lambent and full. You want desperately to pull some of her light to you, funnel it into your spark and use her to fuel something. A message, A warning. But you feel drowsy and nauseous, drained, and your arm is still immobile and beginning to burn with a persistent ache, and your legs have stiffened and set, so all you can do is think - a primal chant in your head that you hope someone can hear - _packpackpackpackpack_.

*

"Have you ever thought about if we would have met?" you say suddenly and he hums, questioning, so you continue, "you know, if Peter didn't bite Scott?"

He doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough that you think he won't answer, but then he sighs heavy. He glances over to you but refuses to look outright. "I like to think so," he says, then, quietly. You smile, say, "me too," and then lean heavier into his side, into the warmth of him, under his arm and under his gaze, your ear pressed right above his heart as you listen to it pound away.

*

By the ache in your back and shoulders, you guess that you've been laid out on a stone slab of some sort. This is all worryingly routine, which seems to be tempering some of the panic. The room itself is small, just big enough for the slab you're on.

You're hoping for anything; feeling around for any sort of energy but it all just feels like a hole or a pit. All you can smell is the earthy Musk of fresh soil. _Mausoleum_ you think absently, before slipping into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Stiles' POV


	2. 1. A FIELD OF WITHERED ROSES

1\. A FIELD OF WITHERED ROSES

The moon sits stark and silent as a ghost this night; you rose stark and silent as a ghost this night. You stretch your tired old bones and walk down the stairs, hear the sleeping breaths of Erica and Boyd up in their rooms. You jog out into the foggy grey evening.

You don't get people, not really; you never have. These trails, you get. These lands, the rolling hills, the old thick trees, the cliffs and lakes and streams, you understand all of this somewhere deep behind your solar plexus. Know it on a primal level. You lose yourself in the constant pace, the familiar deer trails, the whisper of the wind through a field of tall, dry grass. You don't get people, Derek, but you understand the pull of the moon and you understand the tightly coiled feeling of happiness and you understand the slow drag of skin against skin. These are things you know.

You finish the loop, the house looming ahead of you. It's a huge house, not old but in an old style; the grand porch with columns salvaged from the burned wreckage that was here before (they used to be white, now they will remain stained grey forever).

You stand there on the porch, hand on the knob of the front door when you suddenly feel a thread pulled tight at the nape of your neck; an eerie sense of misery; dread heavy down in your gut like lead. Seconds later Scott calls you. He says, "did you feel that-" but before you can answer you hear the maelstrom, the shrieking aria of Lydia screaming.

*

You always were the problem child, if your family had one. Laura was a born leader. Cora was the baby. Even Emmett, older than you but younger than Laura, was a natural fighter. They had teased you mercilessly, the older two, that you weren't meant for anything: you had been meant to be the baby but then Cora usurped your role and left you aimless. So your siblings teased you and your mother held you close and coddled you and so they teased you more.

When you were nine you shifted for the first time. A late bloomer, your father said, beaming proudly. Even then, just a babe, it was anger that brought it on: Anger has always been your North star. You couldn't reconcile your parents' pride with the rueful tears spilling down your cheeks, the heavy flush of Malice, the teasing laughter of Emmett. He had been teasing you without respite for days and finally you'd had enough and rounded on him. You had let out some primal noise; a wildcat's scream; a growling bear, and finally the shift took over you. You felt like you were spilling moonlight, overflowing with silvery fae magic. In a second your family was on you (you missed it, then, but your mother had glared down Emmett fiercely until he was contrite), your father's beaming smile (the sun), your mother's placid pride (the moon). All of the stars in the sky spilling from your eyes. You didn't know what to do, so you ran. You always run.

*

You follow instinct, throwing yourself into the Camaro and flying down the road toward Scott. Toward Lydia. _Packpackpackpackpack_ the only thought in your mind. You pull up outside Scott's in what feels like seconds, bursting from the car like a bullet and meeting him and Jackson on the porch. Before you can even speak Erica is grinding her mom's car into park along the street outside so her and Boyd join you. You all follow Scott up to his room, finding Isaac already there.

No one speaks for a moment, and you curse yourself for not realizing sooner that someone was missing. "Where is Stiles?" you say, "where is Lydia?" No one answers. Everyone's eyes have turned huge with panic. Then, Lydia screams a second time.

*

You ran nearly all day, only stopping once you were truly winded and had long since shifted back. You found yourself standing in front of an impossibly large stump, felt it pulse with magic that seemed older than the forest itself. A whisper on the wind: _nemeton_. It felt so powerful that it shocked you out of your primal run. You withered before it; you had been overcome with so much shifter magic that you'd felt invincible but this felt somehow like the nexus of the universe. The nemeton seemed to disturb the air around it, something which you felt just as much as saw in the dappled sunlight through the canopy. You were quaking there, betrayed by the forest - your home - your land - your life - for hours before you heard the footsteps behind you.

*

All of you, the entire pack available, burst down the stairs and out the door before you can even think. All of you know better than to sprint down the street, so you're spread out through alleys and side roads and rooftops; but you're all running toward the echoing choir of Lydia screaming which has carried across unknown lengths of air to beat heavily against your ear drums.

You all pour into the cul-de-sac more or less around the same time just to run up on Lydia, standing in the center of a huge mess of runes and lines forming a labyrinth of magic strong enough for you to smell. The girl turns to face you all, to face down her pack, and opens her mouth like heaving a great sigh. From her mouth, a voice says, "chaos panic destruction cleansing fires," and then she goes sailing through the air as if thrown by some great beast, and lands limply on her left side in someone's front yard.

*

Your mother's voice, from behind you, said, "this is a source of great magic. This is the beacon, Derek." The beacon. The beacon.

*

Jackson is there in a second, Lydia in his arms and coming to with a start. She reaches up, swatting at him until he lets her go and strides directly towards you as that heavy lead in your gut passes through and becomes actual fear.

*

"It's scary," you replied dumbly, transfixed on the magic in the air. "Oh baby," she said, "it's all a bit scary, isn't it?"

*

She strides directly towards you, but limply - like A marionette - and when she reaches you it feels like she is a powder keg of magical energy. Her eyes have changed colour. They remind you of your mother's. Her hand raises in front of her, brushes your cheek. "We just do-

*

-the best we can, don't we?" she asked. You nodded. Eyes stuck. Eyes drawn in. Eyes full.

*

You shift back as if she's tried to slap you. _Rearing back_ says Stiles' voice in your head. She blinks her eyes a few times and then leans in Dangerously close to gaze intently at your eyes; you don't move.

She says, "eyes so clear, but you aren't even looking," and then collapses into your arms. Jackson takes two steps toward you. Erica and Isaac are pacing relentlessly around the yard. Boyd is a constant pressure behind one shoulder and Scott statue still behind the other.

Seconds after passing out Lydia comes to, stepping primly two steps back from you. "It's a pleasure to see you out here, everyone," she says. "If you wouldn't mind filling me in, though..." she continues.

*

You only tore your eyes away from it when you feared that your mother would leave you behind, but she was still right there. Her eyes were locked on you. She leaned in, looked closely into your eyes, and sighed content. "Let's go home, baby," your mother said, and you followed her without question (the moon).

*

The Hale house is full. In the past, in another life, it was full during joyous moments. Now, it seems to only fill up in turmoil. You are thankful to have found Lydia - one missing packmate is better than two, practically, but no less worrying - but you can basically hear everyone around you asking the same question: Where is Stiles?

You are pacing even though you can tell it is not helping. Everyone's body language is broadcasting to you that it is not helping. You are frightened, truly, because Stiles is human as much as he is pack and for all of his magic. He does not heal like you and the wolves. His pain is a bit more permanent than any of yours (physical, of course).

"Who saw Stiles last?" you ask, because doing nothing isn't helping. No one speaks at first, so Scott raises his hand. "He slept at my place last Night. Left right before I headed to work and I haven't heard from him since." That's good. It's something, at least. "How was he acting before he left?" Lydia asks. Scott shrugs, but then thinks better of it. "He said he didn't sleep well," he says, and then concentrates. "He said something weird. Like he got this weird look on his face and was spacing out, and then he said something... moss... museum... mausoleum?"

You glance away, from Scott to Lydia, and find that her face looks as grim as yours does. Mouth a thin, tight line. A grimace. Dread is mounting. Lydia smacks her forehead and says, "runes, runes!" suddenly. "What were all those runes in the cul-de-sac? Someone tell me, for the love of God, that we took a picture or something."

Isaac and Erica hold up their phones (so they weren't just pacing. How much had you missed?) and Lydia pulls them away, absconding into the drawing room; the war room, Stiles once joked. You feel as though you just can't stop thinking about the past long enough to focus on the problem in front of you. You're tempted to begin pacing again, but suppress the urge. Still, you need something to do, so you busy yourself with putting on a pot of coffee. No one looks like they will sleep tonight, and while the betas all gather in the kitchen to talk, hushed, subdued, desperate, you join Lydia.

She's frantically Examining the photographs and rewriting the runes, taking pristine notes as she goes and translating what she can. "This looks bad, Derek. I don't even recognize half of these and the ones I do are heavy duty. Necromancy. Oppression. Binding magic. Possession. Add in my two screams, sacrifices I'd guess, and I say that on a scale of kanima to alpha pack we're sitting solidly at a 12." She's frank, honest, and you've always appreciated that. She would have made an excellent wolf, you think. Still, the news is dire. "How does Stiles fit into all of this, though?" you ask, and Lydia's gaze startles up and away from the paper. "If I have to guess, I'd say he's the third Sacrifice," she says, and your heart drops so far into your gut you feel sick.

*

You lay there in bed for hours, unable to sleep. All you could see was the pulsing, shifting of the air around the nemeton. The kaleidoscoping haze of every tone and hue you'd ever encountered. The ozone smell of pure and powerful magic; like heat lightning. You felt drawn to it. Magnetized. Repulsed at the same time. It seemed so profoundly powerful that it was an affront to everything you'd been taught about the world. You felt bound down to your bed, suppressed by the heavy weight of knowledge; burdened by the paradigm shift, the sudden awareness that you were not powerful and important and magical, not really, in the grand scheme of things. You finally fell asleep, and you dreamed about the nemeton, buzzing with big dark flies, spilling blood like a fountain; the air rank with the smell of sweets layered over the stench of rotten meat.

You knew fear then, true fear; fear so strong it almost unseated anger as your cornerstone.

*

You are paralyzed with terror, know that the pack can smell it on you. Lydia's eyes are locked on you, and in them you see the reflection of your fear. You reach for you phone, unsure why even as you do it.

"Sheriff speaking," Stiles' father says. "John, it's Derek. Stiles..." you trail off. He says, "right. I hoped I wouldn't get this call. Hoped he was with you guys. Listen, you should get down to Poplar Street. We found the jeep, and it looks pretty bad. And Derek?" You are vibrating with the overwhelming urge to run. Instead you say, "yeah John?" He sighs, heavy and weary, and says, "I found something else. I'd better tell you when you get here." He hangs up, so you go to gather the pack, and you pile into vehicles Somberly, like heading to a funeral, and head towards Poplar.

Fear. This is a thing you know. Fear smells like lemongrass and gin; bitter like pine needles between your teeth. Fear sits heavy across your whole body, a haze around your eyes and a flowing tide down your spine. Tonight, fear is the word 'poplar,' fear is the word 'missing.' Fear is that insistent tug at the nape of your neck. Fear is something with which you are well acquainted.

Poplar Street is a long and winding road which runs along the preserve. It is nowhere near Scott's or Stiles' houses. _What was he here for? Why go this far out of the way?_ You turn a bend and come up on the flashing red and blue lights; the jeep, crumpled and thrown across the entire left lane and into the ditch; the driver door flung forty feet and black - singed - still lightly smoking; and Sheriff Stilinski looking more grim than you've ever seen him before. You step out of the car, meeting the sheriff and one deputy. The deputy glances up as Lydia steps out of the car with Jackson, and her eyes meet his before startling down.

"Derek." John says, clapping one of his large and calloused hands on your left shoulder. You nod curtly, and he gestures his free hand to the deputy, says, "this is Officer Parrish. He's in on the whole... extra-judicial magical business. Something about New York a few years ago..." he drifts off, shrugging before saying, "whatever. In any case, my boy is missing and I don't really enjoy that. And you should see something. Red, too." Lydia steps up to join you, following John over to the burned remains of the door. You can see that she's shook up, so you knock her shoulder with your elbow. She leans into you, and you keep walking.

You flinch at the burnt smell, but smother it. Lydia says, "it's burned from the inside. Like Stiles blew it off the hinges to get out." John nods. "That isn't all. Look at this tree." He gestures, illuminating with a flashlight, and you glance over, almost a straight path from the jeep to the door to the tree. A huge poplar tree, seeming to wither away around a rune crudely carved into it. You walk closer, and Lydia studies it for a long moment, tilting her head to the left.

"This doesn't really make sense," she says, more to herself than anything. "It isn't a rune I've ever seen before. It looks vaguely Druidic." She snaps a picture, says, "I'll have to work on translating this when we get back." You can't help but wish Stiles was here.

From the other side of the road, Scott calls out, "I can smell something over here. It's weird." Eight eyes startle away from the withering poplar tree. You all head over, across the street to the woods on that side. Halfway across the road you catch the scent on the wind, but you persist to where Scott, Isaac, and Jackson are standing at a trail head. A deer trail. Lydia holds the sleeve of her sweater over her nose and mouth; to you and the wolves it is nearly grotesque. It's so familiar that you step back, out of reflex. The smell of sweets layered over the stench of rotten meat. Heat lightning. You feel like you're picking up clues but they're all from different puzzles. The fire. The poplar tree. The mysterious rune; written by Stiles, or whoever took him? The smell from your childhood nightmare; the nemeton pulsing under your skin where the moon belongs. Lydia in the cul-de-sac; two screams; two deaths. Mausoleum, mausoleum.

You look to the sheriff, disheartened to see that his eyes are already on you, expectant. You should know something. This is your land. But the pieces just won't fit. Every angle you consider is a dead end. A cul-de-sac. "I've never seen anything like this," you say.

"We'll get to work on our end. See what you guys can figure out and call me with anything you find, even if it's small." John says, turning after a nod and waking with Parrish back to his car. You can hear the tow truck down the road, so you and the pack head back to the house to figure something out.

*

Lydia is pacing around the drawing room relentlessly, moving between staring at the printed out photo of the rune and the work she'd done translating the mess of runes from the cul-de-sac and the photos of them and the notes she'd made about Stiles' jeep.

You want to calm her, but don't know how. You wish you did, not for the first time. She marches straight out of the drawing room and you follow, the lot of you trailing behind in her wake. She heads for the library. She answers it with a sharp gasp every time she enters; in truth there was so much more before the fire, centuries of Hale knowledge, all burned away like everyone else, so much lost. You wish she could have seen it, before; you wish you could do everything differently.

She searches the shelves, comes back with an armful and sits down right there on the floor to begin pouring through them. Jackson enters last, walking over automatically and setting the photo of the rune next to the pile of books. He grabs one, and the rest of you follow suit.

It's agonizingly slow; a relentless malaise of book after book of nothing. The first pot of coffee has long since disappeared but someone, Erica maybe, already set up a fresh pot. No one speaks for hours.

*

A breeze flows through the room, alerting all of you at once. A book next to Scott flips open. The page has only two words on it. Everyone stills, staring at the book, smelling the raw smell of fresh soil. Lydia reaches out. The temperature drops by ten degrees. Her eyes turn glassy and mirror-silver. Her fingers brush the page. The hair on your arms stands on end as you smell ozone. Lydia says, "ot etir."

There is a cascade of events, then: a blinding flash; a ball of fiery light; the smell of ozone, again, stronger; soil falls from the light landing on the open book; a rumbling like distant thunder; someone says, "clever," and it sounds like Laura's voice; the light grows impossibly brighter; you are all plunged into darkness.

*

When the lights come back on, Boyd is missing. From the garage he yells, "just flipping the breakers." You say, "what were you thinking-" but then you look at Lydia where she is floating in midair and appears to be in a deep slumber. She gently floats down to the floor, and Jackson says, "what _is it_ with today and weird shit happening to my girlfriend?" Erica rolls her eyes, moves to retort but then her eyes catch on something on Lydia's left arm. Sloppy writing, like it was done at an awkward angle, in sharpie and clear as day against her pale arm: 'be careful they know you know living room'.

The aftershock of the event settles through all of you, thrumming in your bones. Lydia is still asleep, head cradled in Jackson's lap. Boyd must be walking back from the garage, because from the living room he says, faintly, "uh. Can you guys get in here?" You reluctantly leave Lydia with Jackson and Scott. The two boys are talking, hushed and serious. In the living room you are only mildly surprised to see another message, written across one of the empty walls:

'THERE IS FARlow TOO MUCH AT P LAY___  
HERE. THIS GRAV3YAR D. THIS MAGNOLIA TRE E.  
THIS WANING M O xN. - S  
D R SW'

Immediately Erica photographs it, an incredibly clever idea. None of you know what the hell is going on, and from the lack of noise from the library Lydia has yet to wake up. Lydia is the most capable magic user next to Stiles. Stiles is missing. These are things you know. You are afraid, more than ever before in your life. Someone is trying to communicate with you, and it is increasingly apparent that it is Stiles himself, somehow. His message is deliberately obtuse, his message on Lydia's arm said they know that you know. You know all of these things, but you have no idea what to do. You are tempted to run. You don't. Panic is beginning to bubble over, all of you stifled here in the house, no one sure how to fix this.

There is a knock at the door. It startles you all out of your morose haze. You move quickly to it. Behind it is John, behind his shoulder is Allison, and back by the cruiser is Chris Argent. You bristle on reflex, but can't deny that you need all the help you can get. You wave them in, say, "I was about to call you. Something happened." John levels a look at you, says, "we noticed. We could see that damn light from town, along with half of Beacon Hills." You look sheepish. Chris catches your gaze, hasn't moved from beside the car, and you jerk your head towards the house. He follows.

You fill them in on what's happened, leading them into the living room to examine the writing on the wall. Chris says, "what the hell does that mean?" and John says, "he's writing poetry now?" so you take that as a sign, John thinks the message is from his son as well. That gives you some solace. Where ever he is, why ever none of you can pick up his scent or feel him around anywhere, he found a way to communicate.

"What are these letters at the bottom?" Allison asks, pointing to 'd r sw'. While Chris moves to check on Lydia, you examine them more closely, looking at the specifics and not the whole message. "Maybe they're directions somehow?" Isaac says, but you still can't get it to make sense no matter how you try to parse it.

 _'SW' could be Southwest, but what about 'R' or 'D'? Road Southwest? But there are plenty of roads traveling SW-NE in the area._ You think, not for the first time, that you want to call Deaton. You should, but can't help but refrain. If Lydia does not wake up, you will have to take her to him tomorrow anyway. You just keep staring at the wall even as the rest of the pack mills about, looking in on the notes and Lydia and the soil on the book.

 _Farlow_ , you think. _Far low. Lay ____. Lay what? Lay off? Lay over? Lay down? Lay... line. ! Ley line! That must be it. Far low ley line. Follow the ley line here._ "I've got something," you say to no one, then louder "I've got something!" The pack gathers around and you start pointing to the parts of the message that don't fit. "Farlow. It's supposed to be follow. And then where there's lay and then a line..." you drift off, hoping someone catches on. Boyd says, "ley line. Follow the ley line. We have a map of them somewhere, if we can find where it got put in the move." John is nodding his head, examining the rest of the message.

"Look at this," he says, pointing to where the 'E' in 'graveyard' is a '3'. "After this number, some of the letters are off by themselves. It's a code inside the words. 3-D-E-M-O..." He stops. He takes a shuddering breath. You can all see it, clear as day, now. All of you feeling dread mounting. Three demons. The stakes rise exponentially. Nonetheless, you all remain there, examining the writing on the wall.

Eventually, John says, "call me crazy. I don't really know a lot about the magic stuff, but when I look at that letter 'd' at the bottom I can't help but... feel something." You stare at it, but feel nothing. Still, you encourage him, say, "what do you feel?" Even while you speak, your attention is drawn into the 'sw'. There, in your chest like the spreading warmth of alcohol, something. John says, "warm. Home. Stiles. I think the D stands for... for dad."

You can't help but wonder what the sw could stand for. Then all at once it hits you with such absurd clarity that you can't help but begin to laugh hysterically, collapsing to sit roughly on the floor and holding your head in your hands. Everyone is looking at you like you've lost it, and maybe you have, but you just know what it is. _Sourwolf_ Stiles says in your mind, and you laugh even harder.

*

"So," Boyd says after walking you over to the couch and sitting you down, "the 'd' is for Sheriff, which I hope is a sentence I say for the last time, and the 'sw' stands for Derek somehow. What about the 'r'? We don't know anyone with a name that starts with 'r'." John chuckles and shakes his head, says, "of course we do. Red's just taking a little nap is all," and you sit up with a sudden realization. "Of course," you say, "Stiles wouldn't just leave us this one message. He left others. Probably more codes and clues." By now it's well after four, so early in the morning that dawn is coming. All of you are exhausted, you can smell it on everyone. "We need to get some sleep. At least try," Chris says. You want to argue; John moves to argue but Chris holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I know, John. I know all of you want to find Stiles as soon as possible which is why we need sleep. We won't be able to figure anything out if we're all delirious." He's right, but you can't even dream of sleep right now.

"Chris is right," John says wearily. "We'll all sleep here, and take Lydia to Deaton's if she's still asleep in the morning. We need fresh eyes. We need to figure out how and where Stiles would have left messages for us and we need to do it quick. Boyd, help Jackson get Lydia up into a room. Scott, get some rest, buddy. Everyone find a spot, that's an order."

Everyone moves at once, unable to argue with John's masterful tone of command. The pack all head upstairs, Erica throwing a glance back at you but continuing on anyway with Isaac, Boyd carrying Lydia with an inconsolable Jackson in tow, Scott fitfully running his hands through his hair and Allison's hand on his shoulder. They all smell like fear. They all smell like you.

John sits next to you on the couch, sighs roughly. He places a hand on your shoulder after a while, looks at you searching for something to say. What he settles on is, "we're going to get him back. Nothing in any world can keep me from my boy. Go get some sleep, Derek." You gaze back at him, unsure what you even look like, how you feel, what you can say. You don't get people, not really; you never have. But you understand the exhaustion on John's face. You understand what it means to lose your family. You sigh, and he pulls you into a crushing hug. You feel like a child, gripping his jacket near his shoulder blades, and shake apart.

Eventually, you get up, giving John a cursory nod, and stalk up to your room feeling embarrassed. You drift off, after tossing and turning for what must have been hours, just as the dawn's light presses up against the curtain over your window, and you have nightmares the whole time.

*

_The nemeton. The horrid hum of a million flies. The smell of sweets layered over the stench of rotten meat. Stiles, with his face obscured behind bandages. A feeling of deja vu. A feeling that you've done all this before. The endless white room. Stiles, dragging a straight razor through the bandages covering his mouth and gallons of thick black ooze pouring out. The horrid hum of a million flies. The smell of ozone. The smell of fires; wood smoke and meat smoke. Drowning in a frigid sea. Standing in a river. Running, running, running. You are the river. You always run._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Derek's POV.


	3. 2. BITTER FRUIT / BLEED THE WINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a WIP. Yes, I am well ahead of what I'm posting. Hopefully this doesn't take too long.

2\. BITTER FRUIT / BLEED THE WINE

You feel as if you are floating. The last thing you remember is your fingers pressing against the Pages of an old book, and the feeling of the library floor dropping out from beneath you. The world is full of a dense grey fog. It appears to be just before dawn. You are now alone in the library, unable to see or hear anyone in the massive Hale house. You call out, hearing your own voice echo back at you; it sounds mocking. You get tired of waiting, feel far too busy to just sit, and so you explore.

You step out the front door and see only fog through the trees. The preserve seems endless, more so than usual. Trees so old they shimmer with ancient power. From a distance, you can see a bright light towards the mountains, looking like the sun dipping down beneath the horizon in a valley there. You will yourself to travel there; you will yourself to remember where it is, and you feel yourself slip silvery through the frigid air.

*

He answers the phone on the third ring, a muffled and tired "...'lo?" probably spoken more to his pillow than to you. "Stiles," you say and you can hear as he wakes up suddenly, sits up in bed, "hate to wake you but I need your help." He yawns, probably stretches, and in the meantime you examine your nails. "Sure thing Lyds, what's up?" You roll your eyes, pin the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you touch up the polish on one of your fingers where it has cracked away.

"I'm painting my room and I've elected you to come with me to pick out colours," you say and he sighs. "Sure thing. Gimme like, fifteen and I'll pick you up." He hangs up and you smile to yourself, wave your left hand through the air to help it dry. You adore Stiles, really, for all of his histrionics and despite the cruel streak a mile wide running deep beneath his goofy persona. You always knew he was smart, maybe even as smart as you if he could focus, and that's something you admire in a person. Even back in second grade, when you'd first met him, he had been wise beyond his years. Excitable, sure, but smart all the same. You hear the jeep pulling up in your driveway, and grab a jacket as you head downstairs to meet him at the door.

*

In a second you are there. Staring at a huge iron gate, fence wrapping around for miles and disappearing into the grey. The gate is swinging lightly in the breeze, a breeze which you can't feel, and the ground here smells like old magic. It feels like a build up of static. You move through the gate and hear it clang shut behind you. Nevertheless, you move onward Along a path. All of the fog seems centered here, thicker somehow; you can barely see anything beyond the edges of the dirt trail. You come to a huge grave stone, standing impassive before you. In front of it, on the ground, is a small box. It's made of wood, and the size of a shoe box. You bend down to look at it. You examine it, but fight the urge to open it. You look up at the stone and read: TO LEARN THE TRUTH, OPEN THE BOX. WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?

You stand back up, taking a step back to examine the whole scene. You look around, seeing other graves, and step to one side and then the other to look at some of them. You don't recognize the names, but you do your best to memorize them. You don't know if it will help; if when you return from wherever you are you will remember any of it, but you try anyways. _Cathy Nickson, Don Anber, Josie Louise Daehler, Samantha Talsin, C-, T-._

The last two names are scratched off. You can't fight the bizarre sense that you're being watched. A wind whispers through trees somewhere, but you still can't feel it. It sets you on edge. Your eyes keep drifting to the box, still sitting there. You walk back, sit down in front of it, and start to think.

*

The drive to the hardware store isn't all that long, but the detour to swing through and get coffee takes you both well out of the way. You are enjoying the ride, windows down and your hair flowing in the wind where it spills out of your hat, radio on loud and you and Stiles yelling along to every song. You've grown quite fond of him, recently. You've never disliked him, no, but it seems like all the parts of him that were jagged edges have been worn down and polished, become smoother, like the two of you have coalesced, finally. You're together enough that the sheriff has started calling you 'Red,' automatically sets an extra plate for dinner when you're there after school or in the evening.

The store appears in front of you too soon, and suddenly you wish you'd asked him to just drive around with you instead of making up this silly pretense just because you were bored. Now you'll have to actually paint your room. You get out, anyway, and he spills out of the jeep to follow after you. You wander the aisles leisurely instead of heading straight for the paint section. Stiles doesn't say anything about it, probably knows that you just wanted someone to hang out with. Either way, you eventually find yourself staring down a wall of swatches and paint chips. He's eyeing some turquoise which you immediately shut down. You stop in front of the beige and he raises an eyebrow, challenging. You roll your eyes, but admit defeat and continue down the aisle.

You come across the purples, glancing them up and down, and your eye catches on one in particular. Vivid violet, like wolfsbane. You glance at Stiles, catch his eyes and glance at the shade. He laughs, but nods his head, and you grab it, determined to paint your room now for the sake of irony alone.

*

You had hoped to find Stiles, at least some part of him, here in this other world. This box is taunting in front of you, and you keep reading the headstone over and over again. _Who wrote it. Was it him or them?_ You catch the thought before it flits away; _what do you mean them? How would you know if it's more than one person?_ You trust your gut, a tactic which has gotten you through life thus far, and reconsider earlier information in light of this clue; nothing new emerges from it.

You look down and realize that you're holding the box in your lap now, though you have no Idea when you'd picked it up. The familiar feeling curls up at the base of your spine; dread and fear and the overwhelming urge to sing out into the void. The maelstrom in your lungs threatening to overflow and drown you. You set the box back down and the feeling passes.

 _What are you afraid of indeed_ , you think, standing back up and examining the area again. You know many things; this is what you are good at. You know quantum physics and you taught yourself four languages, you can translate fairly well from two different dead languages, you know how beautiful people think you are, and you know how to use that to your advantage. You know all of these things, but what any of these clues mean remains a mystery to solve.

*

Stiles drops you and the paint off back at home a few hours later. He promises to swing by this weekend to help you move your furniture and do the walls, but he drives off with a wink over his shoulder. You shrug, carry the paint cans into your house, and head up to your room. Jackson is inside, laying across your bed, but you cross straight over to the dresser, setting down the paint and placing the paint chip on the top of the dresser carefully. It seems like a souvenir somehow. Jackson doesn't say anything for a long time. Eventually though, he says, "riding around in Stilinski's death trap of a jeep?"

You shrug, crossing the room to him and crawling into the bed, seating yourself in his lap. He sits up to meet you, smirking. You want to wipe the smirk off his face, so you cover it with your own lips. If you can't see it, it isn't there.

*

It's cold out, wherever this is. It's been hours but it still looks like dawn's meager light. You are well and truly perplexed, stuck on whether or not to open the damn box. _What are you afraid of?_

*

"What are you so afraid of, Lydia?" Jackson asks you. You raise your head from where it's been pillowed on his chest, meet his eye. "I know," he says, "we've had this talk a million times. And you always give me a different answer. I love you, alright? And you love me. So why are you so distant? Why won't you tell me stuff?"

"Stuff," you reply flatly, but he won't stand for the deflection. "Yes. Stuff. Like why you're painting your room that atrocious purple. And when you started spending so much time with Stilinski. And whether or not you'll move with me after high school."

You roll your eyes, roll to face away from him and towards the wall, roll into a defensive position. "I can paint the walls any colour I choose. We have known Stiles since childhood and we're in a pack together. And after high school I am going to God damn MIT for the thirtieth time. I am not going to waste time when I have a Fields Medal to win. Not for anything."

Jackson scoffs. From the way he tenses you can tell he regrets it instantly. He doubles down anyway. "I would give up everything for you," he says. You don't look over. (You should look over.) You don't say anything. (You should say something.) You know a lot of things, but what to say isn't one of them.

*

You want to open the box but you're afraid of it. This whole place is a Nightmare. The headstones. You startle as you hear footsteps to your left. You jump up and turn that way, defensive. Through the mist, a woman approaches you. It's odd, honestly a poor decision, but as soon as you see her face you drop your arms. You tilt your head. She looks so familiar, but you can't place her.

She raises one hand, like she isn't sure what to do. Instinctively, you whisper. "Where are we?" you ask, and she smiles. "A warm bed full of good things," she whispers back, pointing at you, then, "in the ground, years and years," pointing at herself. "What's in the box?" you ask and her smile becomes sad. "There are three sides to every story. Yours. Theirs. And the truth," she says, and you wonder if cryptic poetry is a language itself around here.

"Last words are poetry. Fear is the pen."

She fades from view, even as you call after her. "Wait!" you say, but there's no one there.

*

In the morning, Jackson is gone. This, you think, is what you're afraid of. Being alone. Being abandoned. You lay there for a long time in bed, and then you start moving furniture away from the walls.

*

You think about everything you know. You think about everything that's happened to bring you to this point. You think about Stiles and how huge a hole he would leave in your chest.

You sit down, and you open the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Lydia's POV. The POV will switch a lot in this (chapter to chapter) so I thought I might clarify.


	4. 3. AUGUST BURNS AROUND YOU

3\. AUGUST BURNS AROUND YOU

You can't have slept for more than an hour, but you wake up with a start. You can still feel, somewhere, the tether of magic that is the pack bond, shimmering somewhere in your chest, telling you that wherever he is Stiles is still alive. Remembering last night, you search your room for any messages from him; search for anything at all, but come up empty handed. Whatever the message is for you, it isn't in your room. You dress quickly, heading downstairs where you find John, Chris and Boyd already awake and strategizing over coffee.

The morning is cold, foggy and damp and dreadful. Out of season for the end of summer but regardless, it fits the mood. John offers you a weak smile and you return it. You hate this feeling, like you're wasting time and you never had enough to begin with. If even one of the clues would connect to something you feel that you could start piecing things together.

"Our first order of business," John says, "should be figuring out where Stiles left those other messages." You nod. "There's nothing in my room. I guess it won't be that obvious." John shrugs. "He did already tell us that they know we know. I figure he had to be a bit more subtle with the other clues than writing them across our walls." Jackson comes down the stairs slowly, looking worse for wear than the rest of you, even. Without a word he moves through the kitchen, pouring himself coffee. You walk to him, rest your hand on his shoulder. He jerks away, on reflex, but then moves closer to you so that your arms are resting together from elbow to shoulder.

"I'm getting real sick of this shit," he says. His eyes are glaring straight through the open archway into the living room; towards the ominous writing on the wall. "I know," you say, and he looks over to meet your eye. You don't get people, but you know pack, and you know that this boy needs someone right now, so you grab his shoulder again and direct him towards the door out to the back yard. He moves with you without a fight, and together you walk out a distance into the foggy morning. You reach the woods, a trail head leading deep into the preserve, but sit down just outside it. You don't say anything, waiting, hoping that you're doing something right for once.

"It's just always one thing after another. If it's not your psychotic uncle biting kids and then dying twice it's an octogenarian in a cheap Macy's suit tormenting us or a pack of alphas trying to rip our faces off or a fucking wraith trying to stab us in the heart. Does it ever end?" he says, looking at the ground, and then looking up into the clouds. You want to tell him yes.

"It isn't always like this," you say, and you aren't lying but you aren't telling the whole truth. "There's something about this town. The preserve and the nemeton and the ground here. It draws things but... when I was growing up it wasn't like this. When my-" you pause, try to gather your thoughts and fight the urge to run from this and make your heart steel. "When my family was, here. Alive. It wasn't ever like this. It was peaceful and stable and..." you don't know what to say. You don't know how to do this. "It isn't always like this," you repeat, and he nods but he looks unconvinced.

*

"Will you give that up and try something else for a change?" you called out to them, these kids, your betas. Your pack. How you ended up with them you will never know. You had closed your eyes and you let your wolf seek out pack: strong and smart and sure. And you found them, one by one. Scott had taken the longest to come around; resisted you so fiercely you believed for the longest time that he would have literally chosen death over you any day.

Isaac came swinging towards you out of nowhere, but from the same direction he'd approached the last six times. You spun around to face him, grabbing him out of the air and hurling him toward Boyd as he approached from behind you. The two boys collided, skidding back across the grass in a heap, when Erica suddenly leaped onto your back and wrapped her arms surely around your throat. You reached back to get her but by then Boyd and Isaac were back on their feet and sprinting towards you, Boyd gripping your left arm while Isaac tackled your legs out from under you. You toppled forward, Boyd's grip wrenching your arm from its socket and Erica planting her knees on either side of your hips, tightening her elbow around your throat. You laughed, tapped the ground three times, and they jumped back away from you. You rolled over, laughing up into the bright blue sky, before sitting up and wrenching your shoulder back into place. "Finally, a little team work," you said, watching their faces light up.

*

Jackson nods again, and then looks at you seriously. "We'd better fucking find Stilinski," he says. There is no hint of his usual sardonic, dry wit. He is rapidly approaching his breaking point, and you want nothing more than to make sure that doesn't happen. "We will," you say, and it sounds more like a promise than you're comfortable giving, but you don't temper it. He jerks his head back towards the house, towards Lydia, and the two of you walk back.

By the time you return everyone is awake (except, unfortunately, for Lydia). You step to the head of the table, standing next to John, and say, "alright. We have some leads. We have some clues. Jackson, you and Boyd and I are going to take Lydia to see Deaton. Erica, you and Isaac head back to the library and start learning everything you can about killing a demon."

John nods along, says, "Chris, you and I should grab samples of that soil that appeared and see if we can figure anything out. While that's in the lab, I'll try to find my message somewhere at home. Scott and Allison, see if you can't figure out exactly what all those runes were in the street. Whatever that spell was it has a lot to do with what's going on here. And Derek, try to think of something that Stiles would think you'd check. I have a feeling he picked things that have meaning to us but that the demons wouldn't know about. Something subtle."

Everyone having their marching orders, you funnel out of the house (for mostly everyone), or to the library (for Erica and Isaac, whose noses twitch at the lingering smell of magic). You're thinking, the whole way to Deaton's, about what could possibly be meaningful enough between you that Stiles would assume you would check. The pool? The big rock in the preserve? There are too many options, and suddenly you startle with the realization that Stiles means a lot more to you than you'd ever allowed yourself to believe. You feel dizzy, thinking about how many times you've put yourselves in danger for the other, how many times you've stopped to just talk and get to know each other. How often you used to tell him outright that you didn't trust him and how he never even once actually said that he didn't trust you either.

*

With Jackson came Lydia, and with Scott came Stiles. Despite their inclinations for magic, you had trouble putting aside the constant fear that they were pack but they were _human_ , so incredibly fragile. It was an endless cycle of fear. Every time shit hit the fan you found yourself too caught up in making sure they were okay to be of much use. Until Stiles cornered you in the house one day.

"Alright, Derek what the fuck is your problem? You don't want me around, that it? You think I'm just getting in the way, huh? You have almost gotten yourself and my friends killed three times now because you're so fucking obsessed with staying on top of me!" he shouted, punctuated his rant when he shoved you back against the wall. You groaned, raised a hand to rest against your gut where a wound still hadn't healed over yet. "If you haven't noticed, I just saved your ass from whatever the fuck was trying to rip you in half, and last month I killed that lamia while she was literally draining you of blood. So if you really think I'm so useless you need to fucking babysit me in battle instead of focusing on your own problems then I don't know what to tell you, dude."

You shook your head, you shook all over your whole body; radiated frustration. "That's not the problem," you said and Stiles shook his head, laughed bitterly. "Then what the fuck, Derek. Haven't I shown you that I am actually a benefit to the pack? I can chuck fireballs and lightning, dude. Me and Lydia working together actually banished a wraith to Hell so I know you know that I can help."

He didn't get it. You thought he probably never would. "That's not the fucking problem," you yelled, growling the whole time. He didn't back down, didn't back up, didn't even blink. "It's not about whether or not you can help us, Stiles. It's whether or not you should. You could die out there, do you not get that? You and Lydia. You don't heal like us. If you get shot it doesn't matter whether or not it's wolfsbane and you sure as shit won't live long enough to die from the poison anyway because you will bleed the fuck out." You were angrier than you'd been yet, angrier even than you'd ever managed to be at Emmett. You didn't say, 'I won't be able to stand losing someone else,' you didn't say, 'I can't have another body on my conscience,' and you didn't say, 'it would kill me to see you get hurt.' You wanted to, but you didn't say any of it. You just turned away from him, tried to walk away.

*

When you pull up, around the back, Deaton is waiting by the door already. When he sees Boyd step out with Lydia unconscious in his arms, he raises an eyebrow but otherwise betrays nothing. You all walk inside together, laying Lydia out on a table. Jackson is off to the side, running his hand through his hair over and over. "Well, what seems to be the problem?" Deaton asks, and you remember all at once how much you hate having to come to him with anything. You don't trust easy, this is a thing you know. Something about Alan Deaton has always struck you as nefarious; a glint in his eyes that you can't decipher and don't trust. Boyd fills him in on everything that's happened so far, Stiles and the cul-de-sac and the runes and Stiles' spell and Lydia activating it. Deaton looks legitimately surprised, something you've never seen before.

"Do you have the photo of the rune Stiles used?" he asks and Boyd pulls out the printed photo, unfolds it. Deaton's eyebrows raise as he studies it closely. He levels you with a look, says, "Stiles did this? You're sure it was him?" You nod, explain how it had created the messages and that they were clearly from Stiles. "I'm impressed," he says, turning to grab one of his books from his desk. It's old, clearly, and he handles it gingerly. He flips to a page and that's when you become truly confused. It isn't a rune at all. Shouldn't have been magical.

"What Stiles carved into the tree is an approximate transliteration of 'to write' in Gaelic. It appears he, somehow, managed to invent his own spell on the fly and with extremely limited time. I would guess that he used the concept of writing itself and visualized very specific objects and messages. Because he had such limited time he even safeguarded the spell in case he wasn't able to do it himself. It seems someone else had to activate it, which I would say miss Martin did. You say she hasn't woken up since she activated it?"

Jackson nods, says, "yeah she was floating in midair like sleeping beauty and she's been out ever since." Deaton hums absently, goes to consult a notebook of some sort. He makes a few notes, mumbling to himself something about _into the grey_ and the hairs on your neck stand on end again. You can feel magic swirling around Deaton, his eyes turning glassy like Lydia's had last night. He holds one hand over her head and her hair starts raising like the air is full of static. For a few minutes everything is still; absolutely still like even the atoms in the air have stopped; then Deaton gasps and a spark of lighting arcs from Lydia into his hand. He drops like a doll.

*

"I don't think so, asshole." Stiles said, grabbed you by the shoulders and pinned you there against the wall. If you had wanted to you could have moved anyway, could have shoved him across the room and fled. You didn't, though. "You are not just going to walk away from me. Fucking talk to me for once! We are in this together whether you like it or not and I can not just walk away from all of this," he shouted. You refused to meet his eye. Then he grabbed your chin and twisted your gaze to meet his, so close you could smell the magic in him, could smell the coffee he'd been drinking before everything went to shit. "I'm not going anywhere, got it? In case this has still escaped your grasp, you are the one who has almost died in the last two shit shows and I am the one who has saved your ass. I can take care of myself Derek, maybe you should try it sometime." He shoved back away from you, shook his head, and walked out the door. You stood there for a long time, the smell of ozone heavy in your nose.

*

You rush to his side; Jackson checks on Lydia and Boyd seems stunned into stillness. You help Deaton up as he comes to a second later. He shakes his head, raising a hand to cradle it, and sighs. "I'm getting too old for this," he says, shaking his head, then, "well I think I found Lydia. Her psyche has entered the grey. She's effectively in the afterlife. It seems she's been searching there for clues. She will wake up as soon as she finds what she's looking for, but until then it could be dangerous to summon her back suddenly. You never know what could attach itself to her looking for a way out." Jackson, his eyes locked on her peaceful face, seems to be fighting back tears. "So she's dead?" he asks and Deaton shakes his head. "No, no. She is a banshee after all. She seems to have the ability to come and go at will in there, so whatever she's on to must be proving fruitful or she would have already come back."

It's shocking news, certainly. You had no idea that there even was an actual afterlife; much less that the living could go there and be able to leave. In the grand scheme of things, though, it ranks low on your list of paradigm shifts. "Is there anything else you can tell us about this? Any idea who would want to take Stiles and what it has to do with demons?" Boyd asks. Deaton shakes his head, shrugs while he falls roughly to sit in his desk chair. He looks exhausted. "It could be any number of things, but I don't believe that Stiles would be a sacrifice. If he were they would have killed him already. But that raises more concerns than it dismisses, unfortunately." You nod, move to gather Lydia back up but Deaton raises a hand to stop you. "If things do get worse, and she can't find her way back, I may have to pull her out despite the risks. She should stay here, for now. Just in case." Jackson moves to argue but you stop him with a hand on his shoulder. "You stay with her," you say, "bring her back to the house when she's awake." He looks unhappy, but nods. You and Boyd leave the way you came and start driving back towards the house.

*

A knock at your door startled you out of your thoughts, but you refused to respond. They knocked again, and when you continued ignoring them the door opened anyway. Erica, Isaac and Boyd stood out in the hall, eyeing you wearily. When you didn't say anything, Erica walked into your room and sat heavily down on your bed near your knees. "What's up, chief?" she asked and you growled. It accomplished nothing. "C'mon chief. You can tell us," she said, "we're pack." Even though she said pack, it sounded a lot like she said family.

Against your better judgment, you said, "I'm nervous about Stiles and Lydia being involved in our fights." Erica rolled her eyes while Boyd and Isaac stepped into the room finally and sat down on the bed with you. "I think that these are their fights too. We aren't the only ones who have suffered because of all these creatures of the night." Boyd said, his brow betraying his level voice and revealing a quizzical tilt. Isaac nodded. Erica put her hand on your shoulder, said, "besides. We kind of need all the help we can get." You huffed, but relented. _Maybe_ , you thought, _I didn't mess up too much picking this pack_. It wasn't perfect. It probably never would be. But they were your family now, all of them, and Erica was right.

*

When you get home there is a car in the driveway that you don't recognize. Nothing seems to be out of order, but unfamiliar things always prickle at your anxiety. You walk in, head for the library and find Isaac pouring over books with Danny. You hear Erica in the kitchen. Danny is furiously typing on his laptop while simultaneously looking through one of the many books piled up, and is talking to Isaac about things they've found. He glances up, eventually, and notices you and Boyd. "Sorry to let myself in, Derek. Isaac called in reinforcements. Lucky for you all, I had nothing better to do and actually like Stiles quite a bit, so I'm happy to help." You nod, and he continues, "right now I'm trying to track his cell phone but whoever took him probably would have ditched it somewhere. Still, wherever they ditched it could help us figure out which way they took him from Poplar."

He would make a better wolf than most who are born into it. He's smart and loyal, and you wish that you'd sought him out all those years ago. "Do you have any leads?" you ask. He nods, gesturing you over to where he's set up his laptop. "It seems Stiles is smarter than even I gave him credit for. About twenty minutes after the crash he sent a text to Deaton asking about dog food, and ten minutes later texted again saying 'thnx'. I would guess that's when whoever has him realized what he was doing, because there hasn't been any other activity and the phone is off. Using the GPS signatures attached to those two texts I've plotted a map of their probable routes from Poplar. It seems they were heading Southwest, before turning North towards the mountains."

You look at the map, where he's plotted three possible routes to lead through both spots Stiles had texted from. "We have a map somewhere around here of the ley lines running through Beacon Hills. Could you overlay it with this road map if we find it?" you ask and Danny nods, cracks his knuckles. "I'm going to need a lot more coffee, but it shouldn't be a problem." You nod, hear Erica sigh and dump out the dregs of the last pot, and then you grab a book from the stack to start helping Isaac learn anything that will give you an advantage against demons.

*

When Scott approached you, alone after everyone had left the morning after a full moon, you filled with a sudden sense of unease. "Derek," he said, stiffly. He was quiet then, like he hadn't thought this through, and you waited patiently. "I think..." he started and you crossed your arms. "I think we need to bring Allison into the pack, and at least use Chris as an ally. They have skills and resources that can benefit us, and they already know about the supernatural." You wanted to argue, could think of a thousand reasons why this couldn't happen. Instead you thought about the pack; pictured everyone together, filled the spaces with Allison and Chris and the sheriff. Instead you imagined stability and honesty. Instead, you said, "I'm going to need to meet with them, and it's going to take a while, but I think you're right."

Scott looked as shocked as you felt, but he nodded twice, face splitting into a grin. He knocked his shoulder with yours on his way past, friendly and appreciative, and you called after him, "and Scott?" He stopped and turned. You smiled back at him, said, "thank Stiles for writing your little speech." Scott laughed all the way out to his bike, and you climbed the stairs feeling like maybe you could be an alpha after all, even though you'd never been meant to do it.

*

After an hour or so, your phone rings. You answer, relieved to hear the sheriff, just as Boyd comes in victoriously holding up the map of the ley lines. "Derek," John says, "I had the lab run an analysis on the dirt and the only thing they could tell me is that it's heavy in pollen from magnolia trees. Stiles mentioned them in his message, so it can't be a coincidence." You nod, realizing too late that he can't see you, and say, "thanks John. I'll have Danny include that in his search." John pauses, talking to someone while holding his hand over the receiver. "Alright. Just be careful. There's something weird going on, and I don't just mean with Stiles. People are acting mighty strange right now." You don't know what he means, want to ask him, but then he says, "I've got to get back to work. I'll let you know if I find anything else." He Hangs up.

You tell Danny what the sheriff has just told you, and he starts looking into areas known for magnolia trees. He marks them on his map; he examines the map with just the direction Stiles traveled and the areas with lots of magnolia; then he overlays the ley lines.

He sits there for a long time just staring at these swatches of colour and highlighted lines and the two red x's marking where Stiles had texted from. He tilts his head left and then right, and then says, "oh." He circles three areas; a confusingly disparate Venn diagram, and says, "alright Derek. This probably isn't the best news but there's three places he could be. They're all cemeteries."

Isaac looks up from his book; Erica stills, eyes locked on the page but unmoving; Boyd looks from you to Danny and back again. "Mausoleum," you say, and you feel that warmth in your chest and gut again, like looking at the 'sw', like thinking about why Stiles thought you were important enough he left one of the messages for you.

*

You found him sitting up on a huge rock, right by an overlook at the base of one of the mountains. You walked up, quiet, and joined him where he was staring wistfully at the stars. He shivered, and without speaking you stripped your leather jacket and draped it over his shoulders. "What are you doing out here, Derek?" he asked and you wanted to spin his question back on him, had intended on asking him the same thing, but instead you said, "it's a nice night."

It wasn't an answer, but Stiles nodded as if it were. He chuckled, sounding much more sad than joyous, and said, "yeah. Lots of stars. Big old moon. I can see Scorpio from here." You looked up, but you had never managed to learn the constellations well, had always been too busy looking down instead of up. He pointed, and you leaned closer to follow his eyeline. You watched his finger trace it, the vague shape in the stars, and only then could you smell the saltwater tears running down his cheeks.

"Stiles," you said, but he interrupted. "Sometimes I just like to come out here alone, to think. About life and... my mom," he said, ending in a hastily choked off sob. You don't get people, Derek, but even you could tell that he needed you. So you wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close to you, and he cried the wrathful tears of someone who lost everything way too young; and if you cried with him, well, he never told anyone and neither did you.

"I just want to make them proud," you said. He sat up, wiping at his cheeks with a shaky laugh, but never took his eyes off the stars. "You have," he said. You wanted to argue, but you fought the urge. You wanted to leave, but you fought the urge. You wanted to kiss him, but you fought the urge with everything in you. "You have, Derek. You've done so well. Look at us, look at your pack. We've survived all this bullshit." He meant the alpha pack, then. But with every passing year his comment would become more and more heavily weighted. You left your arm resting across his shoulders, and he didn't pull away. You sat there for hours, listening to him explain the constellations and pointing to all of the ones he could see. You sat there realizing that maybe, despite all of your best efforts, you truly cared about this boy. You knew fear then.

*

Scott must have heard Danny, because he Enters the library seconds later looking grim. Allison follows him, says, "we've been examining Lydia's notes and the runes from the cul-de-sac. There's something weird about the photos." Scott sets down the notes and the photos and starts pointing out each rune Lydia had copied down and the corresponding rune in the notes. You notice what they mean just as he says, "look. No matter what angle the photos were taken from, this one is always in the shadows. It isn't in a single picture. I sent the photos to Deaton and he gave us some of the other ones Lydia didn't know but it's nothing good. Blood magic. Opening portals. Summoning spells to draw Lydia to the cul-de-sac, specifically for a banshee. Whoever is doing this knows much more about us than we know about them.”

You think about what John said about people acting weird. You think about graveyards. "Did Deaton say anything about Lydia? How she's doing?" Erica asks. "Or why they needed her in that cul-de-sac?" Isaac adds. Scott shakes his head, but it burrows into your brain and roots around, reminds you of something. "We never checked out the cul-de-sac itself. We were too busy getting Lydia out of there to check the houses. They probably would have needed to be there to ensure the spell went right," you say.

Scott looks stricken, realizing that you'd all made such an oversight, and you can only assume that you look much the same. (How much had you missed? How much are you missing?) The pieces are starting to fall together but you still can't tell what it's supposed to be. You don't know what to do. "Scott, Boyd, come with me. We're going to check out that cul-de-sac. Allison, Erica, Isaac, Danny, keep looking through books and let us know if you find anything about banishing or destroying demons. Look for demons that frequently appear together. God damn, find anything and let us know."

You leave again, the Camaro screaming across the pavement as you rush back to where you'd found Lydia only last night (good lord it feels like a year ago already.) with both of your closest betas in the backseat. You spare a second to hope Lydia wakes up soon, to send strength to Jackson, and then focus on the task at hand.

*

"You are very confusing," he said, and you startled. You looked to him, incredulous. "What?" he asked, looking back at you, "you are. I don't get you at all. One second you're the poster child for repression and the next you're out here holding me through a depression pit about my mom. It's kind of hard to keep up."

You laughed. Pulled your arm back and well and truly laughed. "Stiles," you said, "of everyone here, you are by far the most confusing. You don't get me? I'm simple. Everything I care about dies and I'm constantly one mistake away from death. Repression? All of this is a trauma response; a survival tactic. You're the one who makes no sense. Refuse the bite because you want to be human, but even Deaton said you have more innate magical abilities than anyone he's ever seen. Constantly throw yourself into harm’s way even though you're the one most in danger. You're the smartest person I know and yet you _constantly_ act like a _complete idiot_." He opened his mouth to challenge you but you spoke over him, said, "seriously. Jackson is simple. Boyd I get. Erica and Isaac make sense. Even Scott and Allison, I can get. You, though? You are just one question after another."

He looked away, looked back to the stars. He didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, he said, "I don't _constantly_ act like a _complete idiot_." You didn't mean to, but laughter bubbled up in your throat and flew away like a flock of magpies. He laughed with you, then, and the two of you relaxed back into silence as the night moved around you.

*

You park a few blocks away and cut through the woods. The entire walk is a study in Mounting tension. The cul-de-sac looks more or less the same. The runes have washed away, been smeared off, but it seems like no one has even noticed them. It prickles in the back of your mind. You first check for the location of the one rune which wasn't in any pictures, but that entire segment of the mess has been completely wiped away. You look up, straight ahead of it, and the house in front of you inspires an instant sense of dread. You feel your stomach drop out from under you, can tell exactly when Scott and Boyd ping on it; it makes you feel nauseous. The smell of blood. The smell of heat lightning. Blood magic; dark magic. The three of you step forward to investigate.

*

"Don't worry, sourwolf. I won't tell anyone you're actually a stargazing softie," he said, and even as you moved to argue that he was the one stargazing and he was the one who cried, he continued, "just... thanks. Anyway. Thanks for listening to me and not judging me or whatever. I know it's not the same, trust me, I know it's not the same, but I lost my mom and for a long time I blamed myself. I just want to say that neither of us deserve that."

You didn't know what to say, you never know what to say. You wanted to tell him that it's different, that it really was your fault, all of it. You didn't, though. You said, "Stiles, go to bed," and you walked him back to the jeep and refused to look back at him the whole way.

*

You pick the lock easily while Boyd and Scott check the perimeter and try to detect anyone inside. No one is there, you know this. This is a thing you know. But still, better safe than sorry. You enter the house and still just inside the back door. You're standing inside a living room, which looks much larger than it is because it is completely empty. Everything, the whole house is barren and rank with the smell of bleach. Underneath it all, though, is the unmistakable combination of copper and ozone. The rank odor of death. The feeling in your eardrums like a scream is echoing.

You're looking around, Scott and Boyd splitting up to cover the premises, and by the time you've all realized that there is truly nothing here you hear the telltale wail of police sirens. You look back at the door, notice far too late that there was a security system set, and say, "silent alarm. We need to get out of here now," just as the sirens close in.

*

At his jeep, Stiles stopped and turned to face you. He didn't say anything, just gave you a long and searching look. He turned, opened his door, and climbed in. Before twisting the key, he said, "thanks again, Derek. For listening." He drove away, and you walked home with his voice echoing in your mind.

*

You get out, the three of you. You get out and sprint through the back yard and into the treeline just in time to see the flashing lights of two police cruisers pull up to the house. You can't help but stop and turn back, watching in rapt horror as four officers run into the house just in time for all the noise in the world to be replaced by the booming force of an explosion that even from your distance knocks you off your feet. The house goes up in flames, and your senses are overwhelmed: fire in your eyes; the smell of smoke; wood smoke and meat smoke; a woman screaming in agony. You turn, finally, and flee with Scott and Boyd back toward your car, your ears ringing with the cacophony of absolute terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a return to Derek's POV.


	5. 4 THE WRAITH / A SOUND LIKE RATTLING BONES

4\. THE WRAITH / A SOUND LIKE RATTLING BONES

 

The jeep ground to a halt and you could hear something on the wind telling you to run. You couldn't get your door open but you knew you didn't have time to struggle with it. You raised your hands and blasted it off; out of your way. You sprinted out after it even as it was arcing through the air trailing smoke and embers, leaped over it when it landed with a thud, and sprinted towards the woods. You knew that something was behind you. Suddenly, with a bright flash of clarity, you paused at a big tree. You got what was going on, you understood what you needed to do all at once. You grabbed the knife out of your pocket and as soon as you were in reach you started carving something into the tree. All you could think about was _packpackpack_ and how you needed to do something. You imagined messages, you imagined writing, you imagined Lydia's fingers touching the symbol you'd carved. You slapped your left hand against it and said, "ot etir" just as something slammed your face into the tree and you crumpled to the ground.

_Something slamming into the jeep. The door flying off the hinges. Flames. The poplar tree._

You came to in the trunk of a car; a cramped and pitch black place. You groaned, smelling the exhaust heavily around you. You had been kidnapped. This is a thing you knew. So you pulled your phone out and did what your dad told you. Sent a couple texts, spread apart, to someone. They know you know, you heard. So you thought about who you could reach out to who would both realize what's going on and not be too obvious. Deaton, you thought. So you sent him some inane message. Then another. Then the car suddenly slammed on the breaks and you rattled around in the trunk and felt your left arm loll uselessly, felt it flare with bright hot pain.

You heard and felt the driver door slam, were blinded when the trunk flew open and you felt your phone ripped from your hand. You tried to say something, but it was already dark again, and the car started moving, and you felt like you left hope behind with your phone.

Later still the car stopped again. You could hear a sound like rattling chains. The moonlight blinding when they opened the trunk. You were dragged roughly out of the trunk and down a dirt path. You tried, weakly, to resist; you tried, at least, to leave a shoe print or something, any clue that you were here. You were dragged backwards through an enormous wrought iron gate. Down the path, down the path. You heard heavy stones grinding against each other, and then you lost consciousness again.

*

You guess that you've been laid here for a full night, because when you glance out the small window the sky is shifting into a pale blue and you hear a bird chirping. You try to draw it to you. A voice, like a paper bag crinkling, barely above a whisper, says, "we brought you something." You can't see anyone, can't gauge this situation at all. The message you wrote on your arm is fading as you rub at it absently. "Thanks, really. I appreciate it. Can I guess? I hope it's a ride home," you say, and the voice laughs. Well, it isn't a laugh exactly. The voice makes a noise like explosive decompression. Like all the air leaving at once. The sound of it makes you ill. You can feel magic, coiling tight around the mausoleum, and you tighten your eyes against it. When you open them, though, there is a bottle of water near your right arm.

You still can't move the left one, are convinced it's broken. You reach over, fingertips grazing the bottle, before you slide your grip around it. You drink some, greedily, but remember to save as much as you can. Then you pour some into the cap, and try to use the wind to your advantage. You don't have much energy left; whatever you'd done at the crash site took too much. Regardless, by some miracle, you get the cap to carefully float over and rest on the window ledge. You whistle a few times, experimentally.

*

When you woke up your head hurt so much it made you feel nauseous. You could taste copper and it felt like your upper lip was coated in dried blood from your nose. You tried to stretch out but it pulled on your left arm and you cried out at the ache. You knew you didn't have time to waste, so you fumbled around in your pockets until you could pull out a pen. You still had something in you from that poplar tree, and you just kept the messages as still and solid in your mind as you could. Still, you thought, it may not be enough. So you wrote on your arm and the whole time you thought about the pale expanse of Lydia's arm. A voice in your head told you that anything magical you did, they would know about. So you wrote, 'they know you know' and after a second's pause you added, 'living room.'

You clapped your right hand against it, winced from the flash of pain through the left arm, and you waited.

*

You've almost given up, whistling and tweeting absently for more than an hour before a magpie flits over to the window ledge and glances at the water curiously. You stay quiet, absolutely still, but you gaze directly at its eyes and you hope it looks back. When it does you lock eyes with it. It seems entranced. You think, _tell them where I am_ , desperately, and the magpie tilts its head before taking flight and disappearing.

*

You dreamed, then, fitfully.

_A room made out of paper. A magpie flying to and fro, looking for anything shiny and worthwhile. A book on the floor. The book. The magpie spreading its fragile wings and heaving forth a gale so strong the room blew away. A pile of dirt._

You woke up when you could feel a tugging at the base of your spine, like some great red thread, and that was your moment. Your hand started heating up, pressed over the message on your arm, but you had to get the timing just right. It was still dark; it was still night. Suddenly you could sense the bright unfurling of magic somewhere, heavy with the smell of poplar trees, and you took it as a sign, said, "ot etir" and the words on your arm glowed bright and seemed to flow down into the flesh, disappearing. It burned, but you stayed quiet. You were terrified, but you stayed quiet.

*

You are still feeling around for anything to draw magic from; the stone slab only has so much to give; absurdly you think that it would have been better to be on an operating table; your heart could certainly use some steel. You're torn between saving the water to drink or using it for something. Some magic, somehow. _You've already done a few impossible things_ , you think. _But not yet. See how this plays out._

Then; a voice. The same airy, ancient voice from before. "Are we almost ready for the meat?" it says and a gruffer voice answers, "we need one more sacrifice." They seem to be arguing, weighing pros and cons, and deep in your gut a dread settles; today dread is the word, 'meat,' today dread is the word, 'sacrifice'. Today your time might be running out. _Fuck it, might as well do something_ , you think. You draw the water out of the bottle, pull it past you and behind your head. You will it into a circle, pressing it tight against the stone, and begin it spinning in a tight and infinitive loop. Time is not something that you have, time is not something available to you, so you will it to move faster and faster and faster; spinning there behind your head like a halo. Whoever they are, they haven't seemed to notice. You aren't doing anything, not really, just moving water around. You could have done it with your hands.

Still, this will take a while, and you aren't entirely convinced it will work at all; but you have hope and you have belief and you have the complete and utter faith that you will not fucking die today.

*

There was a cascade of events, then: you were blinded by light behind your eyes; you imagined a ball of fiery light; you smelled ozone; you heard someone plunging a shovel into the ground; your heart pounding loud in your ears; someone outside the mausoleum said, "clever little welp,"; the light grew impossibly brighter; you opened your eyes and were plunged back down, into darkness.

Then all you could do is hope against all odds that they would find the messages, would decode them (a voice in your head told you, over and over and over, they know you know and so you tried to obfuscate everything as much as possible) hoped that Derek and Lydia and your dad knew you well enough to look in the right places. You lay there, in pain and in fear, and you hoped.

*

In the window, a black shroud in the shape of a face appears. That ancient rattling voice says, "whatever tricks you're trying to pull are amusing, but futile." You hold back a laugh, retort, "futile? Is there a master class on villainous speeches somewhere? I swear it's the same shit every time."

They do not seem amused, though to be fair you cannot see their face so they do not seem anything other than neutral and menacing. "Upholding your sense of humor this far is admirable," they say, and somehow that statement is the most frightening thing you've encountered so far. "Time draws short," they say, "so whatever you are thinking about doing, I would do it soon." You don't react, just keep the water spinning steadily behind you, eroding away a path through the stone; a door.

Eventually, in the places where the stone was a bit thinner, you start to see cracks of light shimmering through the circuit of water; this mobius river. _Thank God_ , you think, continuing the motion and hoping above all else that you'll have time to act before they notice. Finally, finally, the circle cut falls to the grass outside with a muffled thump. You wait, but no one seems to react, so you move.

You roll to your front to hoist yourself onto your knees. Your left arm is still useless. You look through the hole you've carved and see rows and rows of graves. In the distance, an iron fence. Beyond that; the woods; freedom.

You maneuver carefully, moving to sit on the rough cut stone with your legs dangling out. Time is short, you know this. You must move now, you know this. You swing yourself out and down, the impact shaking your weak legs and almost bringing you to your knees, but no time for that; you must move. You take off, sprinting straight for the fence in the distance, and only after you've made some progress do you hear shouts from behind you. You sprint, thankful (for once) for Lacrosse and the insane practices Finstock would put you through. Still, though, you are dehydrated and weak and your legs haven't moved at all in a day. You won't stop, you won't be stopped. You're almost at the fence, readying yourself to leap up and climb it, when you hear heavy boots slamming behind you, catching up. You can't look back so you just reach deep down inside yourself and feel the static of magic working its way from your spark (deep down in your core) and into your fingertips, and you imagine a wall of flames behind you. You hear the telltale whooshing of the fire erupting, hear a yelp. You don't look back. You reach the fence and jump, catching up high with your hands but your feet missing their purchase, the sudden drop wrenching your left arm so hard that it wrenches a scream from your lungs. A hand reaches for your leg but you kick out, feel a sickening crunch as your shoe impacts with someone's face. They fall back and you're climbing, higher and higher.

Then, a sudden cracking boom. Like a gunshot. Like the quaking of thunder directly above you. It startles you, but you don't let go. Your arm is screaming but you don't let go. _Just get over the fence_ , you think. You look both ways on the outside and don't see anyone making their way around towards you yet; see them scrambling towards you from the mausoleum in your periphery. You hoist yourself over and leap to the ground; too far, you're brought to your knees with a horrid pain in your ankle. No time. You stand, anyway, just as the person you'd kicked wakes up and sits up. "You can't get away," they say, and it's the gruff voice from before, the one who'd said there was still another sacrifice. "Didn't you hear that, kid? That was the sign. Third sacrifice is on, and with any luck a few of your friends have been put down." You don't listen. You shake out your sore ankle, and you grit your teeth, and you run for the woods. You break the treeline, and that's when you smell the smoke.

Now that you're in the woods you can smell the magic in the earth all around you; behind you, the smell of dark and ancient things, old magic coppery like dried blood; in front of and around you, fresh and new magic, heat lightning and the smell just before it rains. It begins to rain and you are tempted to laugh. _Summer rains_ , you think, _you can never predict them._ Your spark is starving, drinking up all of the magic it can find, and it's making your ankle and your arm feel better. Not healed, but tolerable, a dull ache. You keep running, staying off trails and skipping between trails and zigzagging your way through woods you've never seen. You are spreading magic out behind you: The wind to dust away your footprints and the branches to bend down and block and roots to tangle and snare. Then you stop, tamp down all of the power left in you and bury it deep, deep, deep inside of yourself, smothering it down as far as you can to try to hide it. _Disappear_ , you think, _disappeardisappeardisappear_.

You duck down into a hollow of a tree, some old abandoned burrow, and you do your best to drag foliage over the opening and make yourself as small as possible. Then, you listen for footsteps, and pray that your friends are close by, and safe, and here to kick ass and save you.

*

You aren't sure if you dreamed, but you thought about your dad, and your pack. You thought about Derek, and all of the things you had left to do. You resolved to get out of this mess.

*

Hours later, the smell of smoke blanketing the woods and only the occasional shout to remind you that you are in mortal danger, the rain finally lets up. You're mostly dry, hidden away in the hollowed out tree, but while the sun dips lower and lower the cloud cover seems more and more oppressive. The temperature is dropping and light is dying and you've been here for far too long to be comfortable. Comfort is a luxury, however, so you stay as still as possible and try to keep your spark hidden deep down inside yourself.

You hear a voice, soft at first. It's the one you'd kicked, swearing and ranting while he walks the woods searching for you. You shake there, as still as you can be, while you listen to his footsteps get closer. He seems to walk right past you, when the beam of his flashlight pauses on the foliage blocking the entrance to your hiding spot. The flashlight swings left, and he seems to continue on.

In your ear, loud as hell, a voice screams FOUND YOU and you can't help but scream too.

People come running over from several directions, but they still seem to be having trouble figuring out exactly where you are. Beams of light are dancing across the woods and you are quaking, shaking apart in absolute terror. Then, the branches hiding you are torn away, and the raspy voice says, "nice try," before a boot impacts your head and you crumple.

When you wake up, you are back on the stone slab. This time, though, you are chained down. You can see the flickering orange light of a fire, and you can hear a woman crying and pleading to be let go. Dread is blanketing you like snowfall, and somewhere in the back of your mind you hear Derek saying, "you could die out there, do you not get that?" The people are chanting, their hidden faces shrouded in darkness and their arms up, like asking for alms from the heavens. The sky breaks open in a bright flash, thunder rumbles overhead, a torrent of rain blankets the graveyard but their fire stays lit. The woman is screaming, calling out for help, but there's nothing either of you can do to stop this. You hear her crying, "get away from me with that," she says, "our father... who art in Heaven..." she says, and then you hear a horrid scream like a mountain lion; the sound of blood gurgling in her throat.

All Hell breaks loose. The chains binding you down start shaking and rattling; the sound becoming so loud it echoes in your head despite the torrential rain and thunder. Three people approach the mausoleum with wicked faces. One has eyes like mirrors. One is bleeding from a thousand wounds. One is crying tears of blood. They all stare at you, and then simultaneously raise knives and slit their own throats. You can't stop the scream that rips from you.

The chains rattle fiercer now, and with a deafening noise the night is blinded out by a harsh light. The stone of the mausoleum explodes outward around you as you see three impossibly large shapes of light. They descend upon you, burning like hot oil and slithering down your throat as you scream around them, all your world agony now. You realize, and it's the last thing you will realize for a while, that you aren't screaming anymore. You're laughing. Then, you fall. Into darkness.

\---

This meat. This bone. Prey. You settle down into it. All of you together. This prey doesn't seem to be here; perhaps you broke it; perhaps it is hiding from you. You shake out the limbs of this prey. You test its physicalities. Blathering fools surround you. You know this. You made them. You twist its neck this way and that. To and fro. You make pleased noises. This bone has much magic inside of it. More than it knows. You will not be stopped now. You look at your servants; piles of meat. You look at your prey while it throws itself at you. You raise a limb. You will them to stop; take their lives; you feed. The meat collapses to the ground. You walk with its legs, towards the things you desire. You maneuver it towards a line of black through these woods. These woods are yours now. The green you step on turns black and barren. You like this body; you like its power. All of you agree, you will enjoy this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks a return to Stiles' POV.


	6. 5. BURNED IN LIKE AN AFTERIMAGE

5\. BURNED IN LIKE AN AFTERIMAGE 

_“Um, miss Stinski…” a small voice says behind you. You set down the plate you’d been washing, turn off the tap and tear your gaze from where you’d been staring out the window at the poplar tree in the back yard, turn to look at a young boy with dark features. “Yes, Derek?” you say, crouching down to look at him._

_“Are you okay? You look sad,” he says, curious enough at four to be blunt about it. You smile at him, this brave young boy. You say, “I’m fine, really. We all get sad sometimes, but it will pass.” He nods, like you’ve given him some sagely wisdom. He will not remember this conversation when he is older; no matter how much you wish he would. You need to tell him one more thing. “If you ever need to learn the truth, face what you’re afraid of.”_

\---

The world is suddenly bright white and you can no longer see the fog, or the graves, or the fence, or the box. All of the world is a stark white room which stretches endlessly on in all directions. You test your voice but it won't emerge. So you walk.

It seems to take forever and yet no time at all; time here is even more warped than the eternal haze of grey morning you'd just left. You keep walking until you come across a desk. On the desk is a single sheet of white paper and a pen. Interesting, you think. With nothing else to do, you sit down.

'Cemetery. Where the mountains swallow the sun. Mausoleum. Cathy Nickson, Don Anber, Josie Louise Daehler, Samantha Talsin, C-, T-. There are three sides to every story; yours, theirs, and the truth.'

You try to picture the woman you'd seen, but now you can't remember. You hope that what you've written down is enough, and also that you will remember this when you get back. You rise, slipping the paper into your pocket after folding it as small as you can. You turn away from the desk, and all you see is white. You turn back to the desk, and all you see is white. Endless. You continue to move, because there is no sense in staying still when one is trapped in some dimension inside of a box inside the afterlife.

There seems to be nothing at all inside this void and it makes you wonder what fear, exactly, you were supposed to be facing. Eventually, though, after what feels like hours and hours, you see something in the distance. It almost looks like a big black fly until you get closer and realize that it's a person, hunched down and shaking (with laughter or tears you cannot tell). You make your way towards the person; slowly detail emerges and you stop dead in your tracks when you recognize the red waves of hair, and the exact, emerald green, sweater that you are currently wearing. It's you. _How cliche_ , you think absently, _I'm afraid of myself_.

She hasn't noticed you yet, so you study her. She keeps shaking there on the ground, hunched over herself like a defensive curl. Then, she looks up and meets your eyes. You're stricken - her eyes look like silver, like mirrors. As you step closer, intending the whole time to back away, you see yourself there in her eyes. She smiles, but it doesn't look right.

"Shouldn't you just go back? I'm sure your friends need you," she says. "Or does he really mean more to you than your own boyfriend?" All you can do is arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is that the best you've got," you say and she laughs. Well, it isn't a laugh exactly. She makes a noise like the wind through the woods. "You know exactly where he is, you stupid girl. So why are you still here?"

You don't know what to say. You know many things, but the right answer isn't one of them. You trust your gut, you say, "I'm here to learn the truth." She stands, so suddenly that you can't even see the motion. She's three feet closer to you in an instant; you need to watch her closer but you can't tear your gaze from the ghost of yourself standing and shocked still in the reflection in her eyes. She has a knife. You note this distantly. She stands impassive and you don't dare move. She raises her left arm, and you feel your right arm follow, like in a mirror, but delayed somehow. She holds the knife up to her throat. You see in her eyes that you have a knife now. You note this immediately. You feel the maelstrom in your lungs threatening to overflow and drown you. You feel terror curling tight and then slipping insidious up your spine. You open your mouth, and you scream.

*

A vision: _Stiles in the woods; blood in his mouth; a grotesque field of bodies like a garden; the smell of heat lightning; the smell of sweets layered over the stench of rotten meat; knives slicing cleanly through flesh; screams and screams and millions of screams like the pits of Hell; the heat the heat the shocking heat; a boy, a body; crows taking flight; crows laying on a dirt path; the nemeton covered in huge dark flies; a voice says FOUND YOU; a woman washing dishes, staring out the window at a poplar tree; a rune shrouded in darkness; lightning flashing over a pool of blood; saltwater on the wind; Derek wearing a crown of barbed wire; an attic light extinguished._ The vision dissolves, the dream discandies.

*

At first your eyes are shut tight, but you open them, lock eyes with yourself again. She hasn't moved; you haven't stopped screaming. Suddenly in her eyes, cracks. They spread out across her face; they spread out across her body; they spread out from her and shift and slice their way across the white void. Then, it all shatters.

You finally stop screaming and find yourself in darkness, the only light up in the attic of a distant house through the void. You move there. It takes no time, you are there at the house. The door is open, this is a thing you know. You walk inside and it is cozy, warm and nice. Sparse, but purposeful. You realize all at once how cold it has been ever since you arrived in the grey, and shiver with the remnants of the chill before your cheeks flush with the flickering heat of a fire in a fire place. "Hello?" you call, but there is no answer. You move through the house, looking around, until you open a door to a long hallway. The hallway is lined with dozens of doors, and at the far end is a steel plated prison door. All the doors are locked, you find as you move down the hall. You know where you are going, and what you will find.

At the end of the hall is a huge steel door, dozens of locks running up the sides. You knock. "It's Lydia," you say, "can I come in? It's been a long time."

The locks click one by one, agonizingly slowly, but finally the door shifts slightly, and you push it aside like it's nothing. Inside is a bedroom. And on the bed is an old friend.

*

You threw yourself down, roughly across the bed. You pouted, near inconsolable. "Alright, who do I need to kill?" he said, which startled a laugh from you. You resumed pouting. "Seriously," he said, "I've destroyed more monsters than I can count, one asshole isn't anything." You rolled your eyes, but couldn't keep up the pout any longer.

"Shut up, Stiles. You don't need to kill anyone. It's just... Jackson being a jerk. He really wants me to move with him to Chicago but I've already told him what I'm doing a million times. I'm just annoyed, that's all." He shrugged, said, "you knew what you were signing up for with Jackson when you brought him back from the dead Sophomore year." You laughed again. He wasn't wrong. "Do you think it's always going to be like this?" you asked and he shrugged again. "I hope not. We're almost Seniors. This year should be easy, we deserve it."

*

Stiles looks up at you wearily from his bed. "Are you actually Lydia or are you one of them? I guess it's too late since I let you in, but you've got to appreciate my struggle and admit I deserve the truth either way."

You're taken aback, but realize how bad he looks a moment too late. His nose looks like it's been bleeding on and off for days; his cheeks are gaunt and his skin looks fevered; he looks like he hasn't slept; he has big ugly bruises. "Stiles it's me. I activated your spell and then I ended up in some freaky afterlife bullshit and found you here."

He just stares at you. He leans and glances past you, at one of the doors down the hall outside. You follow his gaze and see it just as you left it, locked tight. He looks back at you. "Tell me something only Lydia would know," he says.

"Oh for Christ's sake. In Sophomore year I resurrected Jackson." He looks unimpressed, so you continue, "with true love's kiss of all things." His eyebrow quirks, but he gestures for you to go on. "You teased me about it for weeks. I had to stop you from making fun of Jackson being the princess in that scenario because I genuinely feared for your life."

He stands suddenly, moves toward you and grips you tight in a crushing hug. "Jesus, Lyds how did you fucking find me?" he asks. You laugh, if only to cover your tears, and hold him fiercely to you. You say, "when I activated your spell to reveal the messages - genius by the way - I ended up slipping subconsciously into like, the afterlife, which apparently I can do. So I found a graveyard, I imagine the one you were held at. And I saw a ghost, and then I opened a box and ended up in a white void, and then screamed at myself, and then broke the world and ended up here."

He just stares you down, nonplussed. "Can I like, take you the fuck home now?" you ask, and his smile fades. "Not quite. They have my body, so I locked my consciousness away... wherever here is. I'm keeping them from accessing any of my memories so that they can't use anything we know against us. Honestly, Lyds, I'm fucking scared that we're going to need every ace in the sleeve we can find. I'm scared it still won't be enough. I don't know how long it's been since they took my body, I don't know where they are or what they're doing. I'm pretty fucking scared, but as long as I'm here I'll be okay. You should get back. Help them. Tell my dad I love him. And Derek. Tell him-"

He never gets to finish his message, because suddenly you feel yourself ripped backwards through the air, through the fog, through everything, and you come gasping up laying on a table in Deaton's office coughing and choking.

Jackson is there, tears in his eyes, and Deaton's face is less than cheerful. "How long was I gone?" you ask, and Jackson says, "the longest night and day of my life. Twelve hours, maybe?" You sigh in relief, slide off the table and move to pull Jackson into a hug. He wraps his arms around you tight, breathing in deeply, soaking up the smell of you. Deaton says, "did you find what you were looking for?" and you turn to face him, say, "gimme a pen and paper," and move to sit at his desk.

"We pulled you out because there's been a bit of an emergency," Deaton says while Jackson says, "everything has gone to shit we don't really have time," at the same time. You roll your eyes and keep your hand out stretched, so Deaton hands you what you'd asked for. Jackson says, "Derek, Scott and Boyd went to check out the cul-de-sac and one of the houses was booby trapped. It fucking blew up with four cops inside, so the sheriff has been completely fucking sidelined dealing with that." You glance up, but continue writing.

"Were the boys okay, did they make it out?" you ask and Jackson gives you a terse nod, stress clear on his features. You look back to the page and keep writing down everything you remember. Every word, everything. You have no idea what will be useful later but you can still see the fear in Stiles' eyes. He isn't sure if you guys can pull through this time, and you're determined to prove him wrong.

Before you leave you turn to Deaton, say, "thanks," and move to walk out the door. Before you do, you turn back and say, "I think you should call your sister. Give her my number." Deaton doesn't react, but it doesn't matter. He will do it. This is something that you know.

In the car, while Jackson peels out of the driveway, you reach into the pocket of your sweater absently. You find a piece of paper, folded up tiny and hidden under the seam along the bottom. You smile to yourself, and run your fingers over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A return to Lydia's POV; with a special guest appearance serving as an interlude at the beginning. We are officially at the halfway point, folks.


	7. 6. WHERE THE MOUNTAINS SWALLOW THE SUN

6\. WHERE THE MOUNTAINS SWALLOW THE SUN

 

You have locked yourself in your room, morose and frozen in complete terror. How could you have made such a grave mistake? You'd played right into their hands, whoever was behind this. You are no closer to figuring out where Stiles left the message for you and this, too, fills you with terror. Everything about Stiles fills you with terror.

None of your betas have even tried to bother you, which you take to be a bad sign. You know that you are needed, you know that there is no time for you to hide yourself away, but you cannot fight it. You were never meant to be a leader, you know this. Regardless you are here, trying and failing at pretending to be one and all the while Stiles is in danger.

*

"You know," he said, stretched out alongside you in the sun, on the grass by the shore of the lake, "I really think this is going to be a great year. We'll all survive and no one will break up and everything is going to be normal. All I'm worrying about this year is my finals, it's been established." You smiled. You honestly hoped he was right. He was shirtless, wearing loose grey shorts and he'd just gotten out of the water so you could feel the chill of it clinging to him. You wanted to move closer. He rolled onto his side, faced you, but you didn't move and you didn't open your eyes.

"You're a lot more tolerable when you let yourself enjoy things, you know," he said. You ignored him, pretended to sleep maybe. After a while he rolled back onto his back, and relaxed in the sunlight.

*

There is a knock at your door. You want to ignore it, but you know that you can't. John offers you a weak smile when you open it, and you answer with your own approximation. Both of you look exhausted. "I finally got away from the station, and I still need to check the house for Stiles' message. You should come," he says. You can't do anything but nod and follow him down the stairs, out the door and into his cruiser.

While you drive down the road in silence, you think about how many things you've never allowed yourself to say. You think about how much you want to get through this. You think about John, terrified to lose his family; to end up like you.

The Stilinski house is dark, has been empty for two days now, and the silence echoes so loud you can hardly stand it. John heads for his office, and you follow at first before you detour, and steal away up the stairs. Stiles' room, the door still open, untouched. It feels intrusive, but you can't help yourself. You push through the door and look around, hit immediately by the smell of him. His room still smells like magic.

He's always been your blind spot; the one person in the pack who you could never figure out. It only makes sense, then, with your luck, that his life would now depend on you knowing him well enough to know where he would hide a message for you. You check around, his bed and the windowsill and the underside of his laptop; nothing. The book you'd read when he'd convinced Danny you were his cousin; nothing. You're frightened and frustrated and exhausted. You glance at his closet - it's open - eyes catching on the chess board on the floor. It's set up mid game; and the king is in check.

On instinct you move across the room and push all of the pieces to the floor. With shaking hands you grab the chess board, and flip it over.

'HAVE FAiTH, LITTLE lION.  
WHEN SHE MAKES YoU HOWL,  
vAULT THE ROPe TO THROW IN THE TOWEL.  
JUST IN CAySE. REMEMBER To PuT THE PAWNS  
B ACK IN bEd D EAR L ION C A USE THEY WILL GET M ISPLACED'

You stare, far too long (time is of the essence!) before you notice the pattern. You start tracing across the letters fingers pausing at the lowercase. i-l-o-v-e-y-

You stop, reeling back. You can't react, can't process. You return to it, to make sure, to double check. There it is, again and again. You look at the poetry, the letters spelling out a song which settles down in your ribs and echoes through your lungs: _i love you i love you i love you_. You notice more, staring obsessively at the writing. Some letters off by themselves; B E D L A M. A horrid shiver runs through you, a pit in your stomach opens up and you feel ill. In your fear, your mind is chanting: Bedlam Bedlam Bedlam.

John comes upstairs a moment later, eyes you expectantly, you hold up the chessboard weakly. You say, "it spells out a word. Bedlam. I don't know what it means." He nods, says, "it means a scene of panic and confusion." You don't know what that means, don't know why that's your message, don't know whether or not to tell John about the rest.

He holds up a photograph. Him, his wife (Claudia, you remember, you met her a few times) and Stiles. On the back, a message.

'WHAT WERE YOU AFRAID OF AS A CHILd?  
MonSTERS Can be WArM LIKE DESIRE.  
FIND ME BY THE ANTIQUE PYRE.'

"It spells out a name, but I don't recognize it. I'm going to head back to the station and run it through the system but it could take a while. You should head back to the house." You nod, take the chessboard and the photo with you (you will not falter; this picture is important and you will not fail to protect it) and run into the woods and towards home.

*

You didn't dare move, didn't want to disturb this peace between you. Eventually, he said, "are you going to say something, or just stare at me?" even though he hadn't opened his eyes. "Summer's a good look for you," you said. He laughed, turning again to face you before rolling further onto his stomach; the lean long lines of his back; the freckles and moles dotting the pale skin. He turned his head to face you where it was pillowed on his arms. "I bet you say that to all the boys," he said, and you chuckled. "Only some boys," you said and his head perked up. "Ooh," he said, "a mystery." You rolled your eyes, moved to stand up and he swung up after you. "Hold on, hold on, I'm not making fun or whatever. I just don't get what you mean."

You walked away; knew he would follow. He did. You walked along down the shore, unsure of what you should say. Stiles stopped you with a hand on your arm, near your shoulder. You turned and looked at him. "I don't know what you want from me," you said and he tilted his head. "I just want to get to know you, I guess. For as much as we hang out I don't really know much about you." You shrugged, you were frustrated. Confused by this boy. Hated yourself for being so confused. Drawn in as much as you refused it. "I mean I was just teasing, you know, about it being a come on. I know you're not-" you shook your head, ran your hands through your hair, interrupted him to say, "maybe I am?" He didn't respond at first, just kept his head tilted and his eyes on you. "Huh," he said and you groaned. "I mean I'm... I'm not. I just..." you didn't know what to say. Had only ever told one person this before, and she was dead. "I just like people, okay? I'm bisexual."

He kept his eyes on you, nodded his head. "Oh," he said. "I didn't know." You started walking back towards the pack but he stopped you again, rested his hand on your arm. "Me too," he said, quiet enough that you could have pretended not to hear him. His fingers gripped in for a second, before you kept walking and they slid off. You never meant to say anything, you didn't know why you did or how you felt. You never knew how you felt.

*

You burst through the door and startle Allison and Erica where they are seated on the couch, flipping through books absently. "Sorry," you say, but then Allison's eyes catch the chess board and she perks up. "Messages from Stiles?" she asks, and you nod, walk them over to the wall where the first message had appeared. You pin them up there. Boyd and Isaac appear from the library, and you examine them together.

No one says anything about what yours says, focusing on the name Don Anber and the word Bedlam. You are thankful, but guess that they recognize the level of priority Stiles poses. Everything else can wait until after. You need to get through this, all of you. Isaac keeps staring at your message. Going over it again and again before he suddenly says, "oh shit!" and runs back into the library. You follow him, and find him desperately going through a huge stack of books while Danny questions him. Victorious, Isaac rushes back towards you and starts flipping through the book so forcefully you're concerned he's going to start ripping pages out. Then he finds what he's looking for and points to a word halfway down the page: BEDLAM. You quickly skim, notice that it's a list. "This is a list of demons dating back the furthest. Bedlam was viewed as a primal force, like entropy," Isaac says.

"But what about the other two demons?" Allison asks, and Isaac says, "that's the kicker.

"Bedlam is made of three demons."

*

You weren't surprised when he pulled up to the house later that night. It was late, and everyone was out. One of the rare nights you got to be alone, and Stiles showed up. After your conversation earlier he was, perhaps, the last person you wanted to see. At least part of you. He spilled out of the jeep and walked sheepishly towards the porch. Construction was still ongoing, but you'd taken to staying here anyway. "Hey," he said, coming to stand next to you. "Hi," you said, resolving to stare at the stars and, in the distance, the mountains. He sighed, rubbed his hand against the shortly-cropped fuzz on his head (you wanted to do the same, wanted to feel it for yourself, you'd never once allowed yourself to) and said, "you don't have to be so weird about this. It's not, like, a big deal. I don't think it changes anything about us, you know?"

You didn't know, in fact. You didn't know where you stood in the first place, had spent so long denying that you even tolerated Stiles, much less were friends. Yet somehow, it had happened. Somewhere around the time you'd started trusting him to take care of himself and started opening up (approximately after he and Lydia had banished the third consecutive wraith in two months to Hell, without their grades even slipping) you had become friends. And what then? A strange tension; your absolute fear. You thought that he found you attractive, but that only raised more red flags.

You didn't get people, not really; you never have. But you understood danger, and you understood loss, and you understood heat coiling in your gut, and you understood deep inside you that good things were worth waiting for. You knew the lines you would not cross; what you did not know is whether or not Stiles would try to cross them, or what would happen if he tried, or even what you could do to mitigate this disaster somehow.

"Anyway," he said suddenly, "I just wanted to check in. I don't like it when you get weird and quiet, because you're actually pretty funny when you want to be. So cheer up, or whatever. Get over it, sourwolf." You grinned, shoved his arm and he said, "alright alright I'm going. Goodnight, Derek."

"Goodnight, Stiles," you called after him, and walked back into your empty, half-built house, and for once you didn't have any nightmares. Just the woods; just home; just love and family and pack; everything an orchard; everything a garden.

*

Lydia and Jackson arrive just around the time you've resumed pacing and Scott looks to be seconds from strangling you. "Oh thank God," Allison says, rushing forward to give her a hug. Lydia looks all business, though. There's an awkward moment where everyone tries to explain everything you'd learned all at once, and then Lydia holds up her hand and says, "hold up, I'm the one who literally went to two different dimensions for my information," which stuns everyone into silence. She says, "thank you," and begins to explain her time in the grey.

"...so Stiles told me that he's locked his entire consciousness away from them to keep them from learning anything about him or us. The downside is that means he can't resist them or learn anything about them either." Everyone is stunned into silence. It is certainly more dramatic than your story, explosion notwithstanding, but you fill her in on everything anyway. You recognize a twinkle in her eye, can actually watch as she is calculating all of the information.

"So," she says, "we need to find Don Anber, because I found that name too, and figure out what he has to do with this."

Scott says, "we need to find Stiles and start checking out the three areas Danny told us to. And we need to figure out how to destroy three demons. And you need to find your message from Stiles."

Lydia grins, says, "what do you think took us so long? I had to stop by my house. It's right here," and pulls a paint chip out of her pocket, along with a tiny folded up note. The paint chip says:

'i ALmOST FORGOT.  
FOLLOW ME InTo tHE DARK.  
DON'T FORGET THIS FLOWER.  
SAGE HAS A VERY mYSTIC POWeR.'

Everything is becoming so much; it's all too much. You feel like you're being strangled. You must smell like terror now because the wolves are all looking at you with concern. You try to excuse yourself but just move numbly to sit on the couch instead. Everything is closing in. You need fresh air, but your legs won't work; you wonder why this is happening; you wonder when all of this will be over; you feel like you need to sleep but you don't have time to sleep; Stiles needs you; you know this; everyone is scared; you know this. You finally catch your breath and say, "sorry," before rushing out of the room and through the kitchen and out the door, walking straight to the treeline but resolutely refusing to cross it. You never wanted any of this; you never wanted to be an Alpha or have a pack. You have never known anything but to be a wolf and so you have not questioned that; it is part of who you are. This is a thing you know. But still, you can't help but wish everything were different. You can't help but wish you'd never let someone destroy you; wish you'd never bit these kids and pulled them into this life of chaos; you wish, absurdly, that you'd been with Stiles when the jeep crashed, could have helped him somehow and avoided all of this. There is so much in your life you wish you could do differently, and you want desperately for this not to be one of them.

*

Regardless of everything you'd been through, you couldn't stop worrying about your conversation with Stiles. Throughout the next week, no matter what you were doing, you kept flashing back to you and him on the porch, you and him by the lake. The slow drone of crickets in the dog days of summer.

It terrified you. Sometimes, while he was using his magic, you could smell woodsmoke drifting off of him. Sometimes it made you think about bonfires with the pack, but usually you thought about Kate Argent, laughing in the moonlight while your house and your family burned behind her.

There has always been something about Stiles, otherworldly and terrifying. The low roar of magic within him; the ozone smell of his spark. Something monstrous and wild behind his eyes. You feared him as much as you were drawn to him; but that was just the way with monsters, wasn't it? The grotesque, the sublime, the overwhelming urge to understand just as strong as the urge to flee. You did not know what to do.

That weekend, everyone was at the house. Out in the huge yard, a fire in the pit (which you hated) and pack all around you talking and laughing and happy (which you cherished). Even John and Chris and Melissa were there, everything warm and solid and good. You still couldn't set your anxiety down; Chris wasn't helping, the fire wasn't helping, but most of all Stiles wasn't helping. There was something in his eyes; mischief. It set you on edge, but you tried to relax.

August had just began; soon the pack would be seniors and then they would graduate. You felt just as excited as you did melancholy. They would leave, then, after one more summer. Head off to college and possibly never return. Sometimes, you honestly wished that for them; for all of them to do what you never could and get out of Beacon Hills and move somewhere else and meet other people, normal people, and live their lives. A selfish part of you, though, always hoped that they would want to stay, against all odds that they would choose you over themselves, even as much as you knew they never would and shouldn't anyway. In short, you were conflicted.

The fire burned on, as the night continued the sheriff decided he suddenly couldn't read while he shared a bottle with Chris and the human members of the pack started pulling beers out. It only took twice for Isaac to give you the sad eyes before you relented. You rolled your eyes, but rose from your chair next to Melissa and made your way down to the basement. In the freezer down there you had some wolfsbane-infused liquor, the only way for wolves to get drunk, and it seemed like the right night to pull it out. While you were digging through the freezer you heard footsteps approaching; footsteps outside the door; footsteps down the stairs. You didn't need to look over, so you continued your search. Footsteps walking to stand next to you.

"What's up?" Stiles asked, his voice falsely casual and thinly-veiled at that. You glanced over at him, continued digging through frozen venison and beef. Eventually your fingers wrapped around the frosted glass bottle of the whiskey. Stiles' eyes lit up, but you shook your head. "Full of wolfsbane. This is the good stuff so it's for the wolves." Stiles laughed, said, "good luck stopping my dad with that line," and then seemed to reconsider what he'd said, almost seemed to become sad. "I think I can hold him off. I am an exonerated murder suspect, you know. I talked my way out of that one," you replied. He laughed, his head tipping back, his neck exposed. You focused on the bottle of whiskey. 

"You were exonerated because you didn't do it, but sure," he said. You chuckled, weakly. He knocked his elbow against yours, said, "what's up with you?" You didn't have an answer. You felt something was about to happen, and you wanted to leave, but you didn't want to leave at all. "I wish you would talk to me," he said.

You were frightened. You knew fear then. He said, "you can always tell me to leave," and you finally looked up at him. "That's not what I want," you said, surprising yourself as much as him. "Then what do you want?" he asked.

*

Isaac and Boyd come out after you, eventually. You can tell that they've given you some time (not enough) but that they recognize that you all need to get to work to find Stiles (not enough time) and that they need you to come back (never enough time). You're shaking there, sitting before the trail head. Isaac sits next to you, leans into your space and you meet his body, pressed together from shoulder to hip. Boyd stands there, searching you.

"I'm sorry," you say but Boyd shakes his head and Isaac leans more heavily into your space, wrapping his arm around you. "Don't be," Isaac says. "This is fucking terrifying. I'm just as scared as you are," he says. You can feel it before it happens, become aware that you're about to shake apart out of fear. Boyd and Isaac crowd into your space, gripping your shoulder (Boyd) and wrapping tighter to you (Isaac) to ground you and all the while Boyd says soothing things, patiently waiting for you to get through the panic attack. It's been years since you've had one, but then again it's been a few years since you've lost someone you care about. You think, distantly while you lose yourself to terror, _guess I really shouldn't have gotten used to people I love not dying._

*

"I want my pack to be stable. I want to figure out why there are so many fucking wraiths around all of a sudden. I want all of you to live long enough to graduate. What do you want, Stiles?" you said, even though you regretted all of it. You doubled down anyway, "what do you really want to ask me?"

He just looked at you, his head tilted to the left a little. Like he wasn't sure who you were. You could relate. He thought about it for a long time, and what he settled on was, "have you ever wanted to do something that you knew was a bad idea?" Your eyebrows raise, surprise written across your face. "Yes," you said, and you could feel the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Stiles said, "did you do it anyway?" and you couldn't help but say, "yes."

He stepped closer to you. You wanted to step back. You didn't step back. He took three more steps and then leaned into your space. Your eyes were locked on his. He said, "it's not too late to tell me to stop and pretend this never happened," but then you grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him in to meet you; his arms wrapped around you and his mouth parted in a silent gasp. You kissed him fiercely and even as you did it you filled with the hollow weight of regret. He kissed you back, but you needed to stop. You knew this. You pulled back, but met his eyes and witnessed him; half-lidded with his lips flushed and a wicked grin and it nearly drew you back in. You placed a hand on his chest, watched his face twist into confusion. "I'm sorry," you said but his face twisted again (look, look, he's aroused. look, look, he's confused. look, look, he's angry.) into anger.

"You know what? I officially don't get it. I thought I got it but what... what... Damn it what the fuck?"

"What damn it what the fuck?" you asked, incredulous. "Don't make fun of me right now, Derek! Answer the non-question!" You sighed. You wanted him to understand. "Stiles," you said, "you are 17. I am 23. I can't. You have to know that I can't," you said.

His anger dissolved. His confusion dissolved. "I'm sorry," he said, but you stopped him. "Don't. I kissed you. We both know there's something here but." He nodded. "It's okay. I should have realized though... I am sorry." You wanted to be more sad, but you were mostly frightened. You were filling up with regret. "I should... get this up to, uh, to the wolves, right?" you asked. He nodded, and you nodded, and you walked past him and up the stairs and back out to the backyard, and Stiles didn't reappear for ten more minutes, but neither of you ever talked about it.

*

It's still early, but you can't help but feel that it needs to be earlier, that you should have gotten panic well out of the way before now. Time is of the essence. You finish shaking apart, and you nod to your pack, and you walk back together into the Hale house. Into your house. Everyone is on edge, and you know you must say something. "Who wants to keep learning about destroying demons, and who wants to go on a tour of out-of-the-way cemeteries?" you ask. No one responds, at first, but then Allison says, "I'll go with you to the cemeteries." Scott nods, raises his hand to volunteer (obviously, he would follow her to the end of the earth and back) and you acknowledge him with a nod. Lydia says, "if the version of it in the grey was anything like the real one, I might recognize it," so she joins you. Everyone else files into the library to continue research.

The drive is long and you have plenty of time to think, but your mind stays blank the whole time. If anyone talks, you don't hear them. Reaching the foothills of the mountains, you pull up to the first possible cemetery, but it’s empty and seems like it has been for decades. You all check thoroughly anyway; you never know what may be lurking among the dead. The second is just as abandoned, overgrown and silent and still.

You pull up to Valley View Cemetery, overlooking the deep lush valley. The sun is directly above you, shining down harsh considering the rain this morning. As you park, Lydia sucks in a gasp. "I remember that big gate," she says gesturing to where a wrought iron fence opens into a swinging gate. Allison nods, grabs her bow and readies an arrow just in case. You walk towards the gate, along a dirt path, and as you glance down you notice footprints, marks from someone being dragged. You indicate to the girls and Scott and they meet your eye: this is the place.

As soon as you cross the fence line and enter the cemetery you’re struck with the rank odor of death; copper and ozone and you know that Stiles was here but it’s so quiet. Scott says, "guys, what's that?" and when you look over it seems like huge chunks of stone are strewn about. In front, partially buried under rubble, you see black cloth. You approach, and that's when you realize what you're looking at. Maybe twenty people, wearing robes and black shrouds over their faces, dead in a heap. The remains of a fire. Three bodies off by themselves, throats slit, at the nexus of the scattered stone; a woman off by herself, throat slit; chains draping off of a stone slab at the center of the chaos.

You are too late; the ritual has been done; Stiles is gone. You are so mad you almost shift, Scott reacts by nudging into your space to ground you. Allison is examining the bodies with Lydia; she pulls the black shroud off of someone's face and the two of them gasp. You look over, between them, and see what is more a mound of scars than a face, two thin eyes and a gash of a mouth twisted in devilish glee.

"There's much more death here than just these people. Years and years of it. This place is like a pit." Lydia says, shivering despite the mid-day heat. Your phone rings, startling your eyes away from the stone slab and the chains.

"Derek," John says, "I got a lead on Don Anber. He died in 1982. Part of a ritual suicide. The weird thing is, his body disappeared from the morgue three days after he died."

*

Weeks later, almost the end of of August, and Stiles reappeared at the house. You thought about June and July, these months of summer and how much things had changed already; thought about July when you and Stiles talked on this very porch. He parked but sat in his jeep for a long time. You didn't step out the door until his door opened. He glanced up at you, like he was surprised to see you, and walked over to meet you. "Hey," he said, and you said, "hi." It was quiet then, for a moment. Neither of you said anything else, just listened to the crickets and the wind through the trees.

"So, I know I'm only seventeen but you know my birthday is in less than two months, right? I mean that's the limit right, eighteen? Or will you put it off until I graduate? Graduate college? Buy my first house? It's not like I'm any more a kid now than I will be in a couple months," he said. You frowned. You didn't want him to fight you, because he wasn't wrong but neither were you. "I really need you to understand that I can't cross that line, Stiles," you said. He didn't reply. You didn't understand people, but you understood fear and you understood anger. Your two cornerstones which took turns supporting the weight of your grief and regret and loathing. You were tired of fear.

"Stiles. I don't care if you turn eighteen tomorrow; then we would wait until tomorrow. I understand if it isn't what you want, I understand if I'm not what you want; but this is me. When Kate... When Kate seduced me I was sixteen and when she killed my family I was eighteen. I never felt more like a child then I did burying my parents. This is a terrible idea anyway. Us. How can I be what you want when you deserve so much better?"

"Fuck that. I deserve better? What about you Derek? How long are you going to torture yourself? Do you think we all love that you're miserable and there's nothing we can do to fix it? Does that seem ideal to you? None of this has been ideal. Scott getting bitten wasn't ideal; Lydia and my dad getting dragged into this wasn't ideal. I don't give a fuck about ideal, dude. But I know that you make me happy, and I like being around you, and I can't stop thinking about you kissing me."

"What would your father say-" you started but Stiles' eyes startled over to you. "Don't you fucking dare use him against me like that," he said. "You don't know him, Derek. Do you know what he would say? He would say, 'son, whoever has got you smiling like that should join us for dinner' like he did before I left to come over here. He wants me to be happy."

You scoffed, watched his eyes flicker between hurt and rage. "Does this really make you happy, Stiles?" you asked. "Because it looks to me like all this has done is made both of us miserable." He shook his head, went to say something, but you didn't give him the chance. "Go home, Stiles," you said, and you turned away and went back inside and up to your room. After a while, you heard his jeep start and pull back out of the driveway, back down the road through the preserve.

*

A bird flits absently around the stone slab. As if it's searching for something. It flies over in front of the four of you, and then with a loud and sudden crack like the popping of a balloon, it disappears, leaving behind a scrap of paper. It says, 'the road,' and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Derek's POV.


	8. 7. SETTLE DOWN, LIGHTNING BLOOD

7\. SETTLE DOWN, LIGHTNING BLOOD

You are deeply terrified that whatever they are doing with your body, it's nothing good. You have hidden yourself away here in a house, in a bedroom, in your mind but out of your mind, and you can do nothing but wait and pray that they don't find you. You miss Lydia terribly, haven't used your voice since she disappeared; you still aren't sure if she was even there in the first place, really. You fear you may be losing it. Here though, in the quiet of this house, listening to the fire crackle on in the other room, far away from the safety of this room you've made, you at least have the benefit of plenty of time to think, to plan. You guess that eventually they will find their way to you, try to get into your mind. You can only hope that you are ready when they do; can only hope that your heart is steel.

*

You move the legs that aren't your legs. You look around with eyes that aren't your eyes; listen with ears that are not your ears. You feel around, you twist the web of magic around yourself this way and that; shake out its spark and clean it up; use it to feel around you for consumption. For dessert. You move its joints and you rattle its bones, jangling through the forest which is yours now, which withers in your wake. Nature knows to fear you; soon the rest of the meat like the meat you're wearing will know the same. It still has not appeared to you, is hiding somewhere deep down in the dark; but you will find it. You will find it and ruin it like you do to everything else you desire. Then you will use its magic to bring balance to its world, and to swat down an annoying fly. And oh how you will feast.

*

You need to do something; you know this. Your magic is wrapped up in this prison for your memories; this hiding spot, but if you could funnel some back, maybe cut the fire or make the house smaller somehow, maybe you could do something. But what? Can you even use magic in this black void, wherever you sent yourself away to when you lost your body? You think so, but you are afraid to try. You fear it might draw them to you sooner, but you don't know what to do otherwise. You can't just sit and wait.

You have to think about what’s going on, and why, and why you, and every other detail of this particular disaster in a long line of disasters. You have to figure something out so you can do something about it. You close your eyes, and you turn off every part of your mind that isn’t actively creating this shelter, and you try to listen to the universe from wherever you are.

*

You move through your woods and find the big black line. You stand on it, looking in the direction of your prey through eyes that aren’t yours. You hear a loud noise behind you, and you make your face look pleased. You turn and some meat opens a door, says, “Jesus kid are you okay? You been in an accident?” and you move its head up and down. The meat says, “hop in, I’ll get you to the hospital,” so you get in. It takes you towards your prey. It is still early, you are making good time.

*

You are listening as carefully as you can, to the noises behind the crackle of fire, to the ringing in your ears and the whispers behind it. You sit there listening as long as you can and then you open your eyes when you feel a full-body itch overtake you. You glance up and the door to your room swings open. The doors lining the hall; your memories, are all locked tight, but you’d left yourself open too long.

On the other side of the door is a bramble of thorns, a small rabbit-like creature caught in and stuck fast, twitching and bleeding all over. It makes several noises, like pleasure, and then it says, “finally found you,” like it can’t catch its breath. You gaze at it in abject horror, feeling the full-body itch increasing drastically in affect and nearly gagging as your stomach sinks. It feels ancient and immensely powerful. Its words seem to cut at you, sharp and jagged like glass. “Put up… quite a fight,” it gasps, hanging on the word ‘up,’ and you feel like you might lose your shit but you’re desperately grasping onto your wits as they try to flee you. “I take it you’re the thing that hijacked my body?” you say, and it sucks in a breath, moans, and then grits its teeth to say, “I am. But I am not. We are.”

You blink and on the other side of the door is a pack of wolves, gnashing and growling and biting at each other in a constant struggle. The wolf closest to you says, “you will be fun,” and then that itch across your body turns into a searing burn.

*

You come as close to enjoyment as you can during the ride, but you find yourself becoming restless. You poke and prod at the meat’s psyche but Madness is bored and Pain is otherwise occupied. This meat is no fun, not even for Blasphemy. So you grab him and wrench him sideways, past you and out the hole where the door used to be in the machine. The machine slows to a crawl, and then stops. You leave the meat for the crows; you can already hear them coming.

You continue to walk on its feet, towards your prey, growing closer all the time. The meat moans and cries out behind you. You are less bored now. You are looking forward to finding your prey and getting rid of it. And maybe destroying things along the way; time enough for a few toys; you’re making good time after all.

*

You know that you want to scream, and you don’t know much else. You wrench open your eyes, as they fill with tears, and on the other side of the door is a person splitting open across a rack. It moans, chokes out, “isn’t it just exquisite? All this agony?” You disagree. You need to fight back. The house becomes cemetery quiet as the fire in the living room snuffs out in an instant. You fill up your spark with as much as you can salvage from the unnecessary things, furnishings and stupid nostalgic trinkets that you’d brought here with you like charms to ward off evil. You lock eyes with it. It grins as the man splits apart and his intestines steam hot in the cold of the void. You think about Melissa, about bandages, and you think about your mom kissing every scrape better. You think about every thing that’s ever made you feel better when you hurt or feel shitty. You take all of those thoughts and you condense them deep inside you as tight as you can like a star forging elements in its core. Then you smile at it, you smile in the face of Pain, and you channel it all into the strongest healing spell you can muster.

You blink and on the other side of the door is a bramble of thorns, a rabbit-like creature stuck fast and shrieking out loud as its wounds knit together. You blink and the door is closed again, and you lock it carefully.

*

You are not displeased by the walk. It has been a long time since you have felt the physicalities of something; been housed in a mortal body; and the sunlight feels pleasant and the breeze feels pleasant and the twitching power all around you, nature shrinking back away from you, is pleasant as well. You don’t necessarily enjoy this meat, being in this meat, but you do not mind it either. The city is coming into view but you have no use for it. Your prey is in the forest.

*

You keep checking, keep glancing to the door to double check and triple check that you got all of the locks. Paranoia is creeping in. Anxiety settling thick around you like dense grey fog. One time you glance over, and see that one of the locks is open. You spring up and lock it again, only to sit back down and notice another lock open. You can’t trust yourself and your fear is becoming overwhelming. You look back, and the door is open. On the other side of the door is a person. Kind of. She stands well over eight feet tall, completely nude and swaying unsteady on her feet. Her head is obscured by a harlequin’s cap and collar, and her face is a mirror. She says, “didn’t you lock the door?” and you chuckle weakly. She sways there, laughing. Well, it isn’t a laugh exactly, it sounds like wailing. Her voice sounds like a thousand voices screaming out, but echoing in the distance. “I would have thought you’d be more vigilant. Must be slipping. Must be losing yourself.” You don’t know what to do. “Deep delights are Turkish sugar and treacle in the gut and honey wine eyes widen in terror of everything from the shrinking violet queen to the dirt-striped arms of poor asking alms from the heavens while broken bones twitch in the desert sunlight. The lambs will flee like doves from the wolves of war when the lost king comes home. The boy who isn’t will again be the boy who isn’t when the fly takes a piece of him away and he hands another piece to a crooked man soaked in ashes.”

“Oh great,” you say, “poetry.” She laughs again and you cover your ears but can’t block the noise of it. You feel panic blanketing you. You are holding onto your spark, clutching it tight like a lifeline, and you blink. On the other side of the door is a man. Kind of. His face is a mirror. His face and neck constrained by the same jester’s cap. He is nude, swaying there unsteady on his feet, sometimes balancing precariously on his toes and sometimes balancing precariously with both feet steady. “The boy who isn’t mistakes trust for love and comfort for love and mistakes love for fear. All of the pawns strewn about catch cold in winter’s first frost while the field of stone roses withers without summer’s light. A blade will cut the string of a bow and blame will be plenty enough to share.”

You channel all of your energy into stability, peace and quiet, peace and hope and feeling warm and solid and good. You think about Scott and your dad and Boyd and you think about yourself but younger alone and afraid and crying on a stranger’s leather couch. You pour all of this into your spark and then you aim it at the mirror. You blink. Outside the door is a person, kind of. They are so androgynous you cannot tell anything about their body even though they are nude. They say, “precarious houses on precarious hills fall to time like everything else. Time reverses and shifts along like a circuit of a river and the snowfall was too light to provide comfort or discomfort.”

You stand up and walk over to the door, standing in front of this being. It leans down and you lock eyes with the ghost of yourself in the reflection of its mirror. You think about sanity; and you pour all of it into the mirror.

*

You reach town and continue on past blathering meat which frets about you. You will not be stopped. You are on a mission. The place is not large; nothing like the endlessness you are used to, and before long you are back in the woods, and you can feel the pulsing pit of the nemeton ahead.

*

The mirror shatters; the vision dissolves; the fear dissolves. You are sitting on your bed, and the door is locked up tight, like you’d never stood up at all. “I’m getting real sick of this shit,” you say to yourself. Then, since this hidden room is no longer keeping you hidden, you move out to the living room and sit down on the couch and start the fire crackling again because you might as well be comfortable while you wait to be visited again. It is only a matter of time, you know this. You sit, and you think about all of the things that have happened.

 _Three demons. Pain, Madness, Blasphemy. Two down one to go. What is the connection? Why did they take your body? Who is Don Anber and why is his name ringing in your ears? What are they doing with your body? Why did they take your body? What do they want?_ You hear a soft buzzing, like a fly. _How long have I been hiding here? Is everyone okay?_ You shake apart, but only for a minute. Then you get a hold of your bones and you put them back together again. You focus on making your heart steel. You focus on the pack.

*

You cannot allow the simpering fool accomplish its goals. You cannot allow this droning fly to upset what is yours. These woods are yours now, and you want it out. The nemeton stands before you then. You can feel the ground quaking with its immense power; it doesn’t shrink back; it doesn’t fear you; you enjoy this. You have missed the nemeton, have not seen it in a long time. You notice a presence, bumbling around the nemeton. It has not noticed you. It is focused on its tasks, and it is nearly done with what it is doing. You wait.

Eventually the big dark fly sits shivering in the center of the grand stump. It has finally noticed you, and so it greets you, “didn’t expect to see you here, Bedlam. I see you’ve brought me a gift.” The fly is a fool. You want to see its face; it has been a while. “A gift? Hardly,” you say using the mouth of the meat you’re wearing. The fly shivers a second longer and then in an instant is no longer a fly. “Ah, no surprise to see you here, I suppose. I should have known only you could come up with a foolish plot like this,” you say and the fly’s bandaged face crinkles as it laughs. Well, not a laugh exactly. A reaction more akin to a fuck you than humor, but which sounds like a laugh.

You have not seen the fly in centuries, and it is just as annoying as ever. “So anyway, B. What are you doing in that body? Your old cult nonsense finally get it right for once?” he says. You roll the meat’s eyes.

“Don’t be coy now, child. I know your plans and your half-baked ideas. I know what you’re after and it must kill you that I got it first. Here’s the thing, you want this meat. You can’t have this meat,” you say, and the fly moves to argue but you will it to sit down and shut up and it does. “This meat is special. Which is why you want it, obviously, but it is special in a way that means you need to find something else to do.”

The fly is angry, and you can feel it. You find it pleasurable. Perhaps you will have to take a physical form more often; it is quite a bit more fun than you remember. “Why don’t you get outta my way and let me eat up that little sack of meat, eh?” he says. You are through playing games. “Don’t we want the same thing here, Bedlam? Chaos is what we do, and you know I do it fairly well. So why can’t I just… do it better?” You are running out of patience. This bumbling gnat has grown tiring. “You are getting too big for your britches, child. You think you’re a fox now? You’ll remain nothing but a fly on a carcass to me, and I am the spider,” you warn and the fly levels a glare through its bandages. Black oil has begun slipping down its arms and dripping onto the nemeton. The nemeton is displeased. This will be easier than you thought; no trouble, really, just a spirit after more power and no clue what to do with it. Fools, all of them. You send Blasphemy after it and then you continue to distract the fly.

*

The fire dims, so you snuff it out. You feel the presence before you see it. Then you see it. A huge book, floating there in front of the fireplace. A flame flickers above the open pages. The flame says your name and it echoes like the din of war, "what have you managed to hold faith in thus far?" Cacophonous, discordant sound; you must cover your ears. You crush your eyes like a book slammed shut and when you open them it has changed just like the others. A man stands sweating in front of a pulpit; gesticulating wildly and foaming at the mouth. “How closely do you hold it, child? How dear is it to you? When will you abandon hope? Abandon hope ye who enter, and here you are.” His voice is so powerful and loud it brings you off the couch and to your knees, but your eyes are locked on. You blink.

A woman stands before you; a nun. Her eyes are dripping inky black blood and she is wearing the habit but nothing else, naked from the waist down and tearing pages out of a book to wipe at the blood between her thighs. “Is there nothing that draws you astray, o’ pious paragon? You are just meat after all and meat is soft and predictable…” she takes the bloody pages into her mouth and chews them, swallowing with a choking noise like she is gagging but cherishing every moment. She grins and grins and grins at you. It looks endless and stained bloody.

She is strangling herself with a daisy chain of religious icons and sigils.

You say, "you can desecrate every symbol you know but what are you but a mockery of symbols? You are nothing but a symbol. You want to mock the belief in something? You are belief." It shivers, "you are nothing but the belief in heresy. And you have no power over free thought. I have already cast aside Madness, and you are nothing if not madness of faith. I can see why you eat last."

It shakes, it quivers there. You blink. Before you stands a knight, spear in hand, crosses across his shield and chestplate. A crusader. “You think you are so clever, Stiles. But we will break you down and devour your mind. Maybe even slowly; eating away at your brain until you die like your mother.”

You rise from your knees and level a glare at it. You funnel your absolute and utter faith in the pack and your father and Scott to come through, the unshakable belief in your own abilities; you focus on everyone you love and care about, and you pray to them. When you open your eyes, you are alone in the house which is not a house, and you decide that you are sick of waiting. _They don’t know my name_ , you realize suddenly, _they kept calling me Stiles_. You realize that you may have some amount of an upper hand, after all, and you lock the house up tight, and you head out into the black void to find the motherfucker who stole your body.

You end up in the white void, staring at the nemeton sitting massive in the emptiness around it. You walk to it, and sit down, and you wait for Bedlam to come for you.

*

“I have other business to attend to, you foolish little fly. So let’s make this quick,” you say with the mouth of the meat you’re wearing. The fly glares, but does not move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter switches between the POV of Stiles and Bedlam.


	9. 8. RATTLE MY CHAINS, TELL ME I'M FREE

8\. RATTLE MY CHAINS, TELL ME I’M FREE

 

Jackson is strewn across your bed, sleeping only because you made him. He wouldn’t be of any use delirious, of course, but also you worry. You step out, closing your bedroom door behind you and leaving him there. As you walk down the stairs your phone rings, so you answer.

“Lydia Martin speaking,” you say, and a familiar voice greets you. “It’s nice to hear from you miss Martin. My brother told me you wanted to talk about something?” Marin says.

You grin, walking into the kitchen, and say, “yeah, we have a bit of a huge problem here. And as much as I know you and Deaton like to use ‘balance’ as an excuse to help us a little as possible this is a very specific kind of problem which I feel falls a bit outside of whatever balance you insist on protecting.” Marin hums absently, like she isn't interested. “It involves three demons, Don Anber, the nemeton, and Stiles,” you say. She doesn't say anything, but you've intrigued her, you know this. You continue, “see I'm a bit of a fan of balance myself. There is a certain way that I like my life to be balanced, and wouldn't you know it, that involves Stiles, so having three demons pluck him away has me a bit... unbalanced.”

Marin says, “did you say Don Amber?” and you know you've got her. “Yes,” you say, “and three whole ass demons inside my best friend.” She hums again, you can hear her flicking through a book on the other end. “Wait,” she says, “Bedlam is _in_ Stiles? Currently?”

“Yes,” and I'm not exactly a fan.” Marin chuckles, says, “I can imagine not. I’m heading back into town right now. I'll call you when I get to Alan’s.”

You hang up, and you drink some water, and you head back up to your room. Jackson can sleep for another hour, then you have business to attend to. Unfortunately Jackson won't get that extra hour, because when you walk back into your room he is tossing and turning fitfully in his sleep. He hasn't woken up yet, but you find you can't tear your eyes away from him; like you've been caught in a trap. His mouth is open and, yes, he is sighing unhappily and reacting to his nightmare, but deep in there somewhere, in between his distress, underneath his breath, a horrid noise like the droning hum of a million flies.

He wakes suddenly, bolting up in bed and cradling his head in his hands while breathing heavily. You move to him, wrap him up and hold him, and he cries. You don’t mind it; you have always thought that crying was no sign of weakness. Eventually he calms down a bit, and he turns to face you looking hollow and exhausted in a way you’ve never seen him before. “I had a nightmare about Stiles,” he says and you feel static in the air, “he was being swarmed by flies. Millions of them, and I couldn’t move or do anything to help like I was trapped in a web. And they ate him.”

*

You sat up in the bed, huffed and crossed your arms over your breasts. From beside you, he said, “oh, what did I do this time?” and you resolved to never see him again. “For Christ’s sake, Jordan. Not everything is about you. I just remembered something, is all. I forgot about some plans and now I’m late.” He rolled his eyes, rolled onto his back with the sheets pooled around his waist. You didn’t necessarily want to leave, but you had promised. “What is that supposed to mean, anyway? ‘What did I do this time’?” He shrugged, leaned over to grab a cigarette and lit it, pulled the ashtray closer across his bedside table. There were seven butts sitting in his ashtray and you had watched as he put four of them out.

“I just think, every time you act like we have to fight before you leave. It's like you’re trying to call this off without actually ever calling it off, honestly,” he said. He wasn’t wrong, but you still argued. “If I wanted to stop seeing you, I would. You aren’t that amazing, don’t get the wrong idea.” He didn’t answer, just sat there in his bed smoking his cigarette. You stood up and got dressed, zipped yourself into your dress and pulled on your boots. “See you around?” he said, and you shrugged with one shoulder like it didn’t matter. He laughed as you walked out the door and down the apartment hall.

*

You wait anxiously for your phone call, and when it comes you’re so relieved you don’t even answer and just grab Jackson and head for his car. He drives you there in silence; you could tell that Stiles being gone was bothering him even before his nightmare but now you realize just how much. You place your hand over his where it rests on the gear shift.

When you walk into Deaton’s you see Marin and him sitting in his office and chatting idly. She looks over and says, “Miss Martin, how nice to see you again,” but you don’t have time for pleasantries. “A pleasure, now let’s talk about banishing three demons,” you say and Alan laughs. “All business, this one,” he says and Marin shrugs. “Reminds you of me, doesn’t it?” she asks and he laughs again. How they can be so cheerful when a seventeen-year-old who they both know has been possessed by demons, you have no desire to learn.

“Typically one would use an exorcism to remove a demonic presence, but this is a bit more complicated,” Alan says and Jackson scoffs. “Of course it’s more complicated. It can’t ever be simple with us, can it?”

“Let me tell you a story about Bedlam,” Marin says.

*

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you chanted as you walked through the door and into Derek’s kitchen. Stiles looked terrified and completely overwhelmed, looking over at you in relief as a pot boiled over on the stove. “Cooking for twelve looks much easier on youtube,” he said and you brushed him out of the way to move the pot off the heat before it became a complete disaster. “Let me take care of this, why don’t you just peel the potatoes?” you said, and he eyed the peeler wearily so you laughed. Stiles was a great cook; just maybe not for crowds. There weren’t any incidents, and you quickly got the dinner back on track just in time for most of the pack to get back from the store.

You put Boyd and Allison to work, because the rest were hopeless in the kitchen, and in no time you were putting finishing touches on as Derek pulled into the driveway. Despite how foolish it was (he could certainly smell the food, and hear all of you there inside) Stiles insisted on cutting the lights and having everyone hide.

“Surprise!” you all yelled, and bless his heart, Derek had the good nature to feign shock before laughing out loud. He looked happier than you’d ever seen him before; like finally the pack was settled and solid and nothing could have made him more glad.

*

“Bedlam itself isn’t, necessarily, a demon. Bedlam is a primal force, essentially chaos. But aspects of it; Pain, Madness, Blasphemy, have manifested in demonic forms. And whenever the three are forced together, they become a more immediate consciousness for this primal force. Whatever Bedlam is doing here, it’s something big. Despite the Order of Discord's best efforts, Bedlam hasn’t taken a physical form in at least a hundred years. That being said; there is only one way to chase out a literal force of chaos…” Morrell says. “Order, balance,” Jackson offers and she nods.

“The only way to defeat Bedlam is through the force of balance,” Alan says. It’s too vague, it isn’t coalescing yet. You think back through all of Stiles’ messages. _Don Anber. Follow the leyline. Three demons. Bedlam. ‘I’m not me.’ Something about sage. Don’t forget this flower; which flower? You picked the paint because it was the colour of… wolfsbane! The irony! It makes so much sense. ___

__“Of course. I get it now. I know what we need,” you say, and Alan raises an eyebrow in a silent question. “Lydia, you realize no one has ever done this before, right?” Marin asks and you scoff. “That’s because no one ever told me this was even a problem,” you say, “it’s so obvious. We can’t fight Bedlam with some abstract idea of balance and order and whatever. We need a literal balance. Deaton, if you would please grab me as much wolfsbane as you can, I’ll just run to my house and grab the only other thing we’ll need to get Bedlam out of Stiles. Meet us at the Hale house.”_ _

__*_ _

__The night was full up of laughter and joy, even the October chill couldn’t cull the atmosphere. The living room and kitchen full, the din of laughter and conversation, the lights warm and golden. It felt to you like a moment which would sit nostalgic in your brain for years and years; blurred at the edges and crinkled like an old photograph. You sat next to Jackson and he scrunched his nose, said, “why do you smell like an ashtray?” Stiles and Derek had disappeared. You used to think that they would just talk, but you’d seen Stiles the day after these events with shoulders slumped and brows knit tight often enough to know that what they do every time the pack is all together is argue._ _

__You didn’t know what about. “Sometimes people smoke, Jackson. I can’t exactly walk around in a hazmat suit,” you said and he rolled his eyes, said, “whatever.” He was sulking because you hadn’t been with him, hadn’t taken his call earlier. He would just have to sulk; you did not belong to him. You did not belong to anyone._ _

__He said, “can we go talk?” and you shrugged, allowed him to lead you away and out the back door. On the porch he stood with his arms crossed, faced away from you and then turned to face you. “You act like I haven’t got a clue what’s going on,” he said, “but I’m not stupid, Lydia. If you want out then just say so, don’t try some power play and think you can run around sleeping with someone else.”_ _

__You glared at him, but couldn’t argue. “I don’t want out. If I did I would leave.” He threw his arms up, exasperated, and growled at the sky. “Then what is it? What do you want? I’ll give it to you.”_ _

__He didn’t know this, you didn’t tell him and would never tell him, but there wasn’t anything he or anyone else could give you. You had everything you needed inside yourself, and you did not enjoy the feeling of ropes._ _

__*_ _

__The drive back to your house is short, which you are glad for. You can't believe that you didn't put together his clue earlier. _Poison and cleansing_ , you think, _wolfsbane and sage. Balance_. You jump out of the car and run up the stairs to your room, digging underneath your bed frantically for the box. When you pull it out you are suddenly struck with how similar the small wooden thing looks to the box from the grey. No time. You wrench it open and start filling up your pockets with the tightly bound bundles of sage._ _

__You run back down the stairs, and into the car, and Jackson takes off towards the Hale house for what will hopefully be the final time during this current disaster._ _

__*_ _

__“Who is he?” Jackson asked, and you frowned. “It's nothing, really. There's no one else.” He moved to walk away then, and you stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Can we not do this tonight? It’s a good night, Jackson. Everyone is happy for once. Can we just talk about this tomorrow?”_ _

__He turned and walked back inside without a word, and he never brought it up again so you didn't either._ _

__Derek had reappeared, sat by the sheriff and sipping on a glass of whiskey. You wanted to find Stiles, but it took a long time and by the time you did it was late. He was around the side of the house, eyes rimmed red as he wiped at them. You sat down next to him without a word and he leaned into your side._ _

__“Are you really cheating on Jackson?” Stiles asked and you shoved him with your shoulder.  “Are you really crying over Derek Hale?” you asked and he laughed. “Fair enough,” he said at the same time you blurted, “yes.”_ _

__He looked over to you wide eyed and you looked down at the ground, at your foolish hands limp in your lap. “I'm going to tell him,” you said. It sounded half-hearted even to your ears. You looked over at Stiles; expected judgment or anger, got sorrow instead. “We’re kind of fucking things up, aren't we?” he asked._ _

__You said, “guess so. But it's only fair. We've held all of these people together through their meltdowns, we are entitled to a few meltdowns now and then just the same as them,” then you asked, “what were you and Derek fighting about?”_ _

__He looked surprised. “I don't know if that's the right question.” You decided to hazard one more guess, said, “are you in love with him?” and Stiles laughed bitterly, ripped some grass out of the soil. “Guess so.”_ _

__“At least you have good taste.”_ _

__*_ _

__Everyone is there when you arrive. Lucky, you can feel the charge in the air; things are coming to a head and you’ve put the pieces together just in time. Deaton has laid a variety of wolfsbane on the table and you examine it quickly, grabbing the paint chip to choose the strain most similar to the shade. You pile that together in a mortar and you quickly dump an equal amount of sage in after it, grinding it together furiously. Meanwhile, Deaton fills everyone else in on the plan. You tune them out, have no need to listen; it’s your plan after all, you know it well, and Christ you hope it works._ _

__You all leave then, heading where you know the nexus of the supernatural bullshit in this town is; the nemeton. Even from afar, climbing back into Jackson’s car with Erica and Boyd, you can feel the vibrations of its power. Something huge is brewing._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Lydia for this one.


	10. 9. THE SMELL OF SWEETS LAYERED OVER THE STENCH OF ROTTEN MEAT

9\. THE SMELL OF SWEETS LAYERED OVER THE STENCH OF ROTTEN MEAT

 

You can feel the air growing charged with magic; it almost feels like the static in the air before a storm. You can tell that time is drawing short and soon this will all come to a head but you feel woefully unprepared. Seconds ticking by, piling up, passing by you. You fear that you are already too late.

None of you know what to do, have been moving between the library and the kitchen and the living room aimlessly for hours. There is a knock at the door and you move to answer it. John is there, with Deaton and Morrell behind him. You gesture them in and follow behind. In the kitchen, John turns to you. He looks hollow. He clearly hasn't slept and you can't blame him; you almost certainly look just as bad.

*

The second you saw her for the first time, you felt mad with lust. She was somehow like walking art; a vision; something so sublime you were entranced as much as you wished to turn your eyes away. It was only for a second, across the courtyard at the mall, but that split second flash of wavy hair and those long, long legs replayed in your mind for a week. Then, you saw her for the second time.

If the first time had been a lightning strike, the second was a long, low roar of thunder. You had tried staking out the mall as much as you could but it wasn't until you'd given up on your third day of mall walking and were wandering home dejected that a sleek car pulled up beside you. The window slid down slowly, revealing her bright face, bright eyes. You were shocked still. She winked at you, said, "where you headed?"

"Home," you said, and pointed towards the woods in the distance. She followed your finger and turned back to face you with wolfish eyes and a grin that seemed to stretch on for miles. "Need a ride?" she asked. "That's alright, it's not far." Her smile faded, but only faintly, only barely, before she moved it back into place. "Alright, kid," she said and started to drive away. It started to rain, and you walked home remembering the smell of her; sweet and floral like jasmine.

*

You feel like it is way too late in the game for you to still be struggling to piece this all together. Deaton is telling you all about Bedlam, about primal forces, but you can only half-listen. You don't care what it is. You don't even care about the spells or the cult or the sacrifices. All you want is to pull this thing out of Stiles and bleed it dry, swallow its lifeblood down inside you. You want to tear it apart, balance be damned. You vow to never let something get its hands on Stiles again.

"I figured out who the three sacrifices were, but I doubt it will help us much now," John says and you move to sit down in the living room, listen as well as you can while your mind is quivering in fear.

"Joseph Drummer was reported missing by hospital staff. He had just been checked in to undergo a voluntary psych eval because he said he was hearing a voice telling him to go somewhere. Nurses said he was polite and present, and that they just assumed he walked out before seeing the doctor."

*

You tried to put her out of your mind, but found yourself obsessing. You wanted her; too young to know better, you wanted to taste her and feel her shake apart; shook apart thinking about her every night. To know her name you would have destroyed everything, overtaken by the madness of it. If anyone noticed, they didn't say anything.

You saw her again two weeks later, sitting with a guy her age and laughing, sitting at a table outside, sipping on coffees. You felt yourself burn with jealousy and willed yourself to temper it down; to remain in control. She caught your eye and winked, waving you over. You felt compelled to follow, but felt shame rashed hot on your face, and so you turned and ran. You always run.

Hours later her sleek car pulled up beside you. You were sitting on a rock, just outside the preserve, sulking when she stepped out of the car. The long lines of her. The length of her neck. She grinned, leaned over into the backseat to grab her backpack. You eyed her. "How's it going, kid?" she asked and you huffed and rolled your eyes. "I'm not a kid," you said and she laughed. "I'm almost eighteen," you said and she eyed you up and down. "Look about fourteen from here."

You jumped off the rock and turned your back on her, started down the trail. You hoped she would follow, and she obliged, catching up and falling into step beside you. "I love hiking," she said, "must be great to live out near this amazing preserve." You shrugged. You felt uneasy, a tingling anxiety like spiderwebs spread across you. You swiped your hands up and down on your arms a few times. "Guess so," you said.

Her laugh was like the crack of a gunshot. Birds took off from the trees. "Not much of a talker, huh?" she said, but it didn't really sound like a question; like she was teasing you. "Guess not," you said. You had spent weeks dreaming about her, this beautiful woman, and now she was here with you and you didn't know what to say. Your tongue was thick in your mouth.

The two of you walked together, her chatting away and you unable to bring yourself to speak. Eventually she reached out for your arm but you twisted away, unsure why even as you did it. She didn't react. The sun was starting to dip low, the light dappled through the canopy stained orange and pink. You stopped, then, and she stopped too. "I'd better get home," you said, pointing a thumb down one of the trails veering off from the open area you'd found yourself in. She looked that way, down that trail, and said, "see you around I guess." You walked off, and felt her eyes on you all the way out of sight.

*

"Maria Watson's parents called in this morning because they hadn't seen her since yesterday and she has a history of self harm. They reported that she must have jumped out her window because she went to her room and never came out." You can't seem to focus, you can't seem to stop thinking about all of your failures and missteps. You wish all of this would end soon. "I didn't think much of it, never thought it could have something to do with Stiles until we got the third call."

*

The fifth time you saw her, she was waiting in the preserve and backed you up against a tree. She trailed a long nail down your cheek and along your jaw, and you shivered. She grinned. "So what's a boy like you doing all alone in the woods? There are wolves and stuff, you know," she said. You scoffed. "There are no wolves in California." She shrugged, backed away from you and turned to walk down a trail. Over her shoulder she said, "you never know."

*

"Pious Heart is a convent over in Raston County. They called me last week because one of their nuns, Rosalie Baillard, vanished one day and she had been talking about Beacon Hills. They called again this morning and said they were concerned about their police force not taking it seriously, and when they went in to ask the sheriff they found out he was missing too."

*

You followed behind her and she slowed down so you could catch up. She didn't say much, but you were never good at talking so you couldn't fill the silence. You didn't get people. You said, "are you new in town?" and she shrugged. "I've been here before, but we move around a lot." You nodded even though you didn't know what that was like; moving physically, sure, but you were born in your house and you would probably die there. These woods were your home and always had been. "What's your name, anyway?" you asked. She didn't pause, didn't look back. She said, "Kate."

*

"Guess what his name was?" John says and you're dumbstruck when Deaton says, "Don Anber."

*

It started to rain and she laughed, looking up at the sky where the light clouds had bunched up and become melancholy. She looked at you, said, "summer rains, you can never predict them," and then pushed you against a tree and kissed you. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest even as you slammed your eyes shut and kissed her back as best as you knew how. You gripped the back of her jacket and felt her lean further into your space and against you, her thigh slipping between yours. You pulled back for air and she pressed a kiss to your throat. "Run home now, kid. Don't wanna catch a cold," she said as she stepped back. She winked at you, turned and continued down the trail, and you stood there for a long time, head back against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rain drizzle around you, before you finally headed home.

*

Too many pieces. Too many puzzles. Don Anber was dead, Don Anber was a sheriff, Don Anber was a cult member. Bedlam and chaos and balance. Pain, Madness, Blasphemy. The nemeton and the dreams you'd had; the flies and the blood. Messages and chains and broken stone. The missing rune. The bomb. You don't even know where to begin. Then Lydia arrives with Jackson and you move back into the kitchen as the horrid stench of wolfsbane floods your senses and Deaton starts explaining Lydia's insane plan.

*

You had, in fact, caught a cold. Rare, for wolves, and never lasting more than a day, but an inconvenience all the same. Laura poked her head into your room and rolled her eyes at you where you were laid up in your bed. "I've never been sick before," you whined and she sighed, walking over to sit on your bed. "Poor baby," she said and you heard Emmett snicker from the hallway as he walked past. You tried to sulk but ended up coughing. Laura patted your back, and then wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?" You looked at her confused. She said, "you smell like tacky cheap perfume." You rolled your eyes, but then realized what she meant: Kate; the sweet smell of jasmine still clinging to your shirt and your skin. "I was at the mall and got too close to a perfume lady," you said and she stared at you for a while before she got up and left with a shrug. "Whatever," she said on her way out the door. You sulked, crossing your arms and sliding down to lay in your bed. You felt caught; you hadn't been caught yet.

*

"So," Scott says, "you guys all use your magic to try to... like, psychically chain Stiles' body down so that you can feed him poison, and we try to like, take care of cultists or whatever, right?" Lydia glances over from her mortar and pestle, says, "basically," and then resumes crushing up the mixture. You can only hope that it's an even mix; aren't even sure if that matters. How literal is the concept of balance or chaos? You have too many questions and not enough answers; no sign of answers coming soon. You wish there was more you could do, but this whole time you've felt shell-shocked; a day behind; always picking up the pieces after everyone has already figured out the puzzle. "Didn't all the cultists die or whatever?" Erica asks and Morrell glances over to her, says, "we have no way of knowing how many belong to the Order of Discord, or whether or not Bedlam has brought them back since Anber is apparently still running around playing sheriff."

You hate this entire situation; at times you hate this whole life. You think it would be better if everyone were still here. If you hadn't let someone destroy everything. If Laura were here she would have done a better job; if your parents were here this would have never happened. You rue the day you met Kate Argent, truly and deeply feel the pain of those wounds to this day. Still bleeding, still raw; nose still full of the smell of it, wood smoke and meat smoke.

*

You did your best to see her in secret, but you lived among wolves and were never a good liar, so the seventh time you came home late, reeking of someone else, your parents were waiting for you.

You did not need to be beckoned to them; you knew full well that if you walked through the front door and both of them were sitting in the living room you must face them immediately, so you moved past them and sat on the couch opposite. Your siblings were nowhere to be found so you guessed that you were in trouble.

“Derek,” your father said, “you're growing up. You aren't a child. We know this means you'll do what you want, but you still need to let us know where you are.” You nodded.

“And if you're seeing someone, there's no need to keep it a secret,” you mother said. You glanced away, but nodded. “I'm not,” you lied. She frowned, it felt like a knife. She said, “well I doubt you've decided to start wearing perfume. And if you have then I suggest a different one.” Your father chuckled. You felt embarrassment and shame hot across your cheeks. “You're sixteen, Derek. You are allowed to have a girlfriend. I just don't understand why you can't tell us about her.”

You shrugged. Refused to answer. She waved you off, and so you walked away and towards your room. You felt caught out, shamed and annoyed, and as you stared down at your hands they appeared bright red; like the blush on your cheeks, like the blood underneath.

*

Even though all of you can feel time drawing short, it is not yet short enough. You must await the right moment, wait for Bedlam to become occupied with whatever it is up to or else it might sense you coming. There is a narrow window here, and the thought of missing it in either direction only makes you more nervous. You've never been good at timing, always said the wrong thing at the right time or the right thing at the wrong time. You don't get people. You don't get why Bedlam took Stiles. None of it makes sense. No one else seems to know what to do either. Everyone just milling about, checking over notes, doing some last-minute research in case there's something you've missed.

It all seems irrelevant now; the why does not matter. Only the fact that something has Stiles and you need to get him back.

*

Before you'd even made it up the stairs, you heard your parents talking. They must have known you could hear them. "I'm worried about him," your mother said. "Oh you're being ridiculous. He's a teenage boy, of course he's going to keep things from us. I tried it too." You hated this. Hated hearing this, hated them. You felt like a fool, and at the time you hated nothing more than feeling foolish. You passed Laura in the hall and glared at her.

"Thanks a lot, Laura," you said, assuming that she had told your parents about the perfume. She looked confused, and you didn't wait around to explain. You walked to your room like a storm front, and you lay down on your bed, and you thought about the beautiful creature who had kissed you. You felt caught, you hadn't been caught yet.

Days later you saw her again, met her in the preserve and started walking with her. It was quiet, more so than before. She didn't try to keep up conversation, and you'd never been good at it anyway. Eventually, though, she said, "you're not like other guys, Derek." You didn't know what she meant. You didn't know what other guys were like; you didn't get people. "What do you mean?" you asked.

"You're different. Wild." You were still confused. You thought she was talking about your personality, your mannerisms; she was talking about you being a wolf; she was trying to warn you that she knew.

*

You know the betas are afraid but you don't know how to comfort them. You know you must try, anyway. Erica is nervously cleaning up in the kitchen; you have no idea where most of the dishes have come from, you haven't eaten in days, haven't found the time in between the panic and the search and the confusion. You walk up behind her, place a hand on her shoulder and she relaxes slightly. "I just feel like I should be doing _something_ , you know?" she says and you nod, moving to stand beside her and dry the dishes as she washes them. "I feel like I should be doing more," you say. "This whole time, I feel like everyone else is doing everything and I'm just... freaking out." She glances to you, hands you the last plate, and shakes her head.

"You've kept us all together," she says.

*

You spent months like this, through your seventeenth birthday and through the next year of school you met with her in secret; out in the preserve, at her apartment, in her car. You were so pleased and curious to have someone want you, so delighted that you had been graced by this divine beauty. You never thought to ask her what she saw in you.

You had, for once, gotten exactly what you had wanted. It was a thrill. Emmett never spoke to you much, other than to tease you at least, but you had always been close with Laura and keeping a secret from her itched somewhere deep under your skin. You didn't think she would understand. Kate was older than Laura, not by much, but you knew Laura would have opinions about it and you feared that they would be your own concerns echoed back at you. Like the reason why you pulled away the first time Kate reached for you. Something mysterious; a warning on the wind.

In the fall, you fought with her for the first time. It was evening, the bright swirling technicolour of sunset given way to indigo. The leaves were orange and red and brown, drifting on the wind like snowflakes and littering the trails under your feet, soaked and spongy from yesterday's rain. "Did I do something wrong?" you asked after two miles of complete silence. She looked over at you. "Well it's just... you're quiet. Are you mad at me or something?"

"No," she said, "I'm just realizing how much of a child you are. I thought you were more mature than that, but..." she trailed off and you wanted to argue. Nothing was different, you hadn't done or said anything wrong. You were not a child. "What did I do?" you asked and she shrugged. "You're whiney and immature. Whatever."

You wanted to growl, you wanted to argue. Instead you just looked up, glanced at the full moon where she was rising over the treeline, and said, "I'd better get home. My family has a thing." She followed your eye line. She didn't say anything. You left in a huff.

Your mother didn't reprimand you for being late, nor for not providing an excuse. She had already given that up.

*

Allison looks strong and sure, and Scott is anchored to her like she is keeping him together. Issac is sitting with them, talking about the plan and trying to help keep Scott calm. You know Scott is close with Stiles, everyone know this, and you can't help but feel like you should have been there for Scott more during all this. At times you can hardly reconcile this version of Scott with the one you met years ago; at times you forget he is still young.

Allison catches your eye from where she's leaned against the arm of the couch. She walks over to you, smiling tightly. "Scott's fine," she says, even though you hadn't said anything. "It's because of you," you say. She smiles a bit brighter, but shrugs. "I think it's all of us. We're going to kick this demon's ass, you know. We've been through worse." She's right, of course, but you can't help but feel like all of this is different than the supernatural bullshit you've weathered over the years. She bumps her elbow into yours and smiles again before moving back to assure Isaac for the tenth time that they could definitely handle zombies (if it came to that).

You turn away, move to look for Jackson, and see John sitting alone at the kitchen table. He has a short glass half-full of whiskey and is holding it in a shaking fist. You sit down and he startles a glance at you, offers half a smile. “Derek,” he says, and you reply, “John.” It’s quiet for a moment, but then he clears his throat.

“You and Stiles have gotten pretty close the last couple years,” he says. You nod. “I just wanted to say that you’re a hell of a man, Derek Hale, and I’m glad that you've gotten closer. After Claudia… it was just me and Stiles, for a while. And then Stiles and Scott against the world. Don’t ever think that it isn’t a blessing, being a part of all of this. If I needed to depend on anyone to get Stiles back, it would be this pack. Every time.” You’re surprised, to say the least. Despite him becoming a part of the pack you’ve never really had a deep conversation with John, had barely spoken to him at all before last year. You’ve never once heard him mention his wife.

"Thank you," you say, "that means a lot to me. I know that you and your wife knew my parents. It's nice to still have some of that around. Not to be the only one who remembers them." John nods, places a hand on your shoulder before downing the rest of his glass.

"Claudia was the last one left in her family, too," he says.

*

Despite the argument you continued seeing Kate, and neither of you ever brought it up. It wasn't until your Senior year had come to a close that you began to take notice of that same persistent itch under your skin. Like all along your instincts had been dragging you away from her like a current that you fought fiercely.

One night, laying with her in her bed, you curled tight around her before she sighed and pushed you away. "Isn't it your family game night or whatever?" she asked and you jumped up, suddenly realizing that she was right. You left suddenly, didn't even say goodbye, and rushed home. The moon was high and strong and bright and you could feel her inside your blood.

You arrived late, which was not new, but more of your family was in town than usual and so your mother looked at you disappointed. It felt like a knife. Disappointing her always felt like a knife. Still, the night was beautiful and you all shifted in the moonlight and ran and danced. You remember this, though you did not cherish it; did not commit all the detail to memory; did not know at the time that you would never again run with them.

*

"Look," John says, "I'm still pretty perceptive, for an old man. It's my observation that there is something between you and my son." You move to argue but his expression silences you before you can speak. "I think he's grown pretty fond of you, and I can't say I haven't as well. I said you're a hell of a man and I mean it." You don't know what to say; you never do. You must say something.

"I don't know... exactly how I feel. But it's irrelevant. There are lines I wouldn't cross for anything in the world." He nods. "I care about Stiles a lot, that should be obvious. I would die before I let anything happen to him," you say and John smiles, stronger now. "That makes two of us," he says.

*

You were about to leave for college, found yourself again in Kate's bed late at night. "Are you gonna miss me?" she asked and you nodded. "Of course. I'm going to miss everyone. My family." She laughed, which seemed odd. She sat up, looked at you and said, "you have no idea." You thought she was serious, that she knew because she'd already done it.

*

Suddenly the wolves all twitch, glancing out windows or looking up from books as they feel some pulse of magic through the air. Static electricity; the smell of ozone. A cold chill up the spine. Everyone can feel it; the ground shaking with it. The time has come, and you all file out of the house to put your plan into action. You are nervous, but you swallow your fear.

*

You got a horrible feeling your first full moon away from home. You had your phone in your hand ready to call Laura when your phone started ringing. "I think we should drive home," Laura said instead of 'hello'. "I have a horrible feeling," she continued. You agreed. She was outside your dorm in minutes, must have already been on the road when she called, and you were in the car and on the road immediately.

Nothing could have prepared you for the huge cloud of smoke above the preserve. The smell of it from miles away. She parked and the two of you took off through the woods, stumbling to a halt as you came near the treeline on the left side of the house. Your heart clenched in pain, in agony. The house. The house. Oh God, your family.

*

You break through the treeline and two figures halt in place and twist to look at your pack. One of them is Stiles and you feel emboldened by the look of surprise Bedlam is making with his features. Bedlam uses Stiles to say, "who are they?" at the same time the other figure says, "who the fuck are these people?" and then all hell breaks loose.

Bedlam moves to raise one of Stiles' arms and Lydia, Deaton, Morrell all hurl magic towards him. His body topples over onto his back and Bedlam looks at them in shock. The other figure hasn't moved from where it's sitting on the nemeton, seems to be in shock, but Allison's bow is aimed and ready and the wolves are shifted and you feel like this is going pretty well, all things considered.

The other figure, face full of bandages (Anber? Someone else?), seems to realize that Bedlam is occupied and goes to move towards the woods when the wind whips up behind Allison as she looses her arrow. It flies true, piercing the figure's chest at an awkward angle. It looks surprised, though not very concerned, when it suddenly tips forward and heaves. From the slit where its mouth is pours gallons and gallons of thick black ooze. Stiles' eyes are huge, watching as Lydia approaches.

"Get the fuck away from my friend," she says, shoving a handful of the mixture into his open mouth and clamping it shut. Stiles' body begins to shudder; convulsing. Then he goes totally still and all you can hear is wind howling in your ears. There's a brilliant light. You want to run.

*

The dancing flames. Her echoing laughter. White paint stained grey and smoke rising like a plume. The smell of it. Wood smoke and meat smoke. The salt of your tears and Laura's tears and both of you frozen in terror, hidden in the shadows. Her face in the firelight. You turned and ran. Flew through the woods. You knew you shouldn't leave Laura but your feet carried you. You tripped at a bank and fell into a river. You stood and ran along with it; you were the river; you are the river; you always run.

*

You do not run. You are through with running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A return to Derek's POV. I'm hoping the last chapter won't take too long, but classes are starting up again for me tomorrow so it may be a couple weeks before I can get it out. Sorry for the wait!


	11. 10. THE WRAITH II / OUT OF DARKNESS

10\. THE WRAITH II / OUT OF DARKNESS

 

The fly which is no longer a fly stands impassive on the massive stump, and then he begins to laugh. You find him exhausting. He's completely managed to spoil your good mood, and you're becoming angry. “Oh shut up, you utter fool,” you say and the fly stops abruptly.

“Get off your high horse, Bedlam. We're cut from the same cloth, you and I. Shouldn't we be allies and not enemies here?” he says. You roll the meat's eyes. “You forget that we are cut from the same cloth because you are cut from my cloth. You are messing with things you don't understand. Why do you think I've spent all this time ensuring you fail?” you reply. He looks unimpressed.

*

You are sitting in the middle of the nemeton. The white void stretches out on every side of you. You know that eventually, Bedlam will come to you. In the meantime you must wait. Your spark is lit up at the center of you, drinking in magic from the nemeton while you meditate. There is nothing else you can do to prepare.

*

You almost find the fly pitiable, would pity him if he weren't so infuriating. "You are reaching for a snake and mistaking it for a rattle. You can not have this meat. If I have to, I will wipe you out of existence, but I would prefer for you to leave of your own accord. After all, when you say that we are cut from the same cloth you aren't wrong. I benefit from your actions as much as you benefit from mine; but I need you to understand something."

He doesn't say anything, but waves a hand at you like telling you to continue. You do not like being told what to do; you will destroy him no matter his choice. You say, "you want to destroy all of these humans. Do you not understand? We are chaos; we feed on chaos and there is nothing in this world more chaotic than humans. All these foolish piles of meat and bone have done more for us than we ever have them. So leave this meat alone."

He grins, some horrid and wicked thing. He moves to oppose you, and you use the meat's power to channel your own; augment both and bind him down to the nemeton like a sacrifice on a slab. He seems panicked. You walk over to him and grin, use the meat's teeth to grin. You pull out a mess of chewed up herbs and shove them into his mouth. He panics, tries to shift back into a fly but you have him now, caught fast in your web. "Bedlam," he chokes out around the herbs but you clamp his mouth shut and wait. If you must, you will reach straight down his throat to force it down. He swallows.

You meander back across the clearing, turn to face him when the moment seems dramatic enough. You open your mouth to speak, and then a mess of meat flies angrily through the treeline like bears. They are magical, even the ones who do not know it. You count six moonskins. You see Alan and Marin. You look at a girl whose lungs vibrate like the harp strings of death. You look at some meat in a tan uniform, holding a gun.

“Who are they," you ask the fly, distantly. He says, "who the fuck are these people?" at the same time, and then you realize that they barely seem to have noticed the fly at all. Their eyes are locked dead on you. You want to get rid of them; you raise an arm. Suddenly the druids and the banshee combine forces and a tide of magic crumples you to the ground. You want to get up, but you are surprised completely and utterly. Where did this menagerie of nightmares come from? Why are they interfering? You glance over at the fly, around the time he realizes that he can move again and goes to flee.

You hear the bowstring. You see the arrow, suddenly embedded in the fly's bandaged chest. He pauses, looking down at the shaft piercing his heart (or at least the space where his heart should be. Does he have one? You can't remember) and you are absolutely enthralled by this spectacle. You could move, you could kill them all in a second, but this... This is chaos at its finest, the purest form, complete and utter bedlam out of nowhere at the last second. This is delicious.

The poison finally soaks through the fly; you watch as he is purged from the shell he assumed and withers away. The banshee approaches you. You decide that this is much too interesting, these creatures are positively delightful. You think that maybe they are this meat's companions, and the absurdity of this group defending mischief so mightily has piqued your interest. You travel inside, desiring for the first time to speak to the spirit of the meat you're wearing.

*

You feel it, suddenly. Massive and powerful like a star. It somehow seems to fill this endless void. You don't open your eyes, yet. You want to feel it out, wait it out. It says, "you are quite impressive." It's voice is so loud it rings in your ears. "To have resisted all three of them; all three of me. You are much more powerful than I remember. Definitely more powerful than your mother."

You open your eyes, a reflex: Before you is something so great that its immensity is impossible to take in all at once; it is so massive that it warps your perceptions of size and seems to shift the universe around and out from under you; it is made up of billions of sleek, black angular shapes; thin and razor-sharp edges; vertices like needles; the shapes are discordant and shift and slide in a maelstrom; constantly the shapes butt against each other and shift and grind as if they are all unceasingly vying for a space in the center; occasionally they all crush down at once with a sound like rattling chains and the mass takes on a vaguely spherical shape; typically they just shift and flow and move about, orbiting some dark and hidden secret at the center.

Bedlam.

"Yeah yeah," it says. "That's me. Listen kid, I want to talk to you for a bit." It catches you off guard. You are terrified; nearly out of your mind; quivering and fevered in fear. "Oh, right. Sorry about that," it says before it is gone in an instant and in its place is you. You, but not; mirrors for eyes and dripping bloody tears and covered in cuts and scars. "I forget, sometimes," Bedlam says, but doesn't elaborate.

"What are you doing with my body?" you ask and Bedlam shrugs, fresh wounds opening across its shoulders with the motion. "Swatting down a fly that wanted to think it was an eagle," it says. You don't understand. "Really, kid, I feel like this was all a crazy misunderstanding. I know you humans all call me a demon, but I just am. I represent half of the balance. I always have been, and always will be. You bones all seem to prefer Order, but Bedlam is just as important."

"Alright," you say. "That seems fair. Why did you need my body?" It laughs, blood pooling in its throat and leaking down like drool. "You really don't know what you are?" it asks and you feel static in the air and anxiety crawling spidery up your spine. It walks up to you and you back up, so it pauses briefly. "What did you mean, about my mom?" you ask, like it's a distraction; you had meant to ask that question first.

"1982," it answers, as if that's an answer. "Who’s Don Anber?" you ask and it rolls its eyes. At least, you think it does; the mirrors don't move but you get that impression anyway. "The president of my fan club," it says glibly. "Who are all those creatures that attacked me?" Bedlam asks, quid pro quo, tit for tat, only fair. "You know," it elaborates, "the wolves and banshee and the druids." You laugh, this time.

"That's my pack," you say and it looks surprised.

"Why, Mieczyslaw. A pack? That's so interesting," it says and you look surprised.

"Why do you know my name when the three didn't?" you ask and it grins. "They only know what I want them to," it says, "only hear what I tell them. It's... odd. I don't think the way things like me work can even make sense to your brain."

It leans in closer, whispers something in your ear. You barely hear it; drowned out by the sudden rushing howl of a gale. Your eyes widen in sudden understanding and you feel your heart thudding in your chest. You can feel yourself standing there, watching Bedlam as it backs away and wiggles its fingers at you like a wave; you can feel yourself there but only distantly; like you're watching all of this from somewhere far away, and safe and solid and warm and good; like you aren't really there at all. Bedlam's words ringing in your ear, shaking you to the core. It disappears, and you fall back into yourself suddenly.

*

You gasp, choking in the fresh air, and your first thought is that your arm isn't broken anymore. You open your eyes and see Lydia, her eyes bright with tears.

“Stiles, did it work? Is that you?” she asks and you can't help the tears that gather up and spill down your cheeks. “Yeah, Red. It’s me,” you reply and everyone gathers around you smiling and weeping. It feels like something has come to a close; you try to remember what Bedlam had said, but then you pass out.

*

_An enormous tree struck by lightning. Dense grey fog blanketing the world. Flames. Rainfall. The darkness under the sea. Bright green eyes - your mother's eyes - staring out a window at a poplar tree. The immensity of Bedlam swallowing you. The ruby gleam of fresh blood. Black tar, a humming drone, a million flies. The nemeton._

*

When you wake up, you are in your bed. Warm and solid and good. You stir slowly, stretching your cramped limbs. You feel like you've slept for a week. You stumble down the stairs and your dad is sitting at the kitchen table, looks up at you in surprise. You cross the room and fall into his arms and he grabs you tight and holds you fast. The two of you together, feeling like the world is settling back into place. You never want to leave.

*

You find yourself in the preserve often, make your way to the nemeton and meditate there. You can feel that Bedlam told you something but it's eluding you and you need to connect back with that force to understand it.

You hear footsteps, open your eyes and watch Derek approach slowly. Tonight is Halloween. The veil is thin, and you were close to learning something you think, but you don't mind. He stands in front of you nose twitching at the smell of the magic here. “Hey,” he says and you smile. “Hi.”

The past few weeks, returning to school as if nothing happened, gaining partial stories of what happened, avoiding thoughts of the searching looks everyone keeps giving you as if they suspect you are still possessed, you've avoided him. Now he is solid in front of you, not even the ghost of your thoughts of him, but him in the flesh. “How are you doing?” he asks and you shrug.

“As well as can be expected, I guess,” you reply. A shy smile plays across his lips. You may never know what Bedlam needed you for, or what it told you, but you know where you belong and you know how you feel. You stand up, walk over to Derek. He says, “Stiles,” but it sounds like a warning. You place a hand on his chest and say, “I turned eighteen last week,” before you lean in and press your smile against his. He pulls you in, holds you tight, and kisses you like he's never done anything more important. You step back, meet his eyes.

You feel a pinch on the back of your neck and swat at it, and then the two of you watch a big, dark fly drift off into the treeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over. I hope you all enjoyed this weird little horror story I wrote.


End file.
